


Numb Too Long

by Zaniida



Series: Mature Readers Only [4]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Capture, Denise's Delight, Detective Work, First Aid, Forgiveness, Gen, Guilt, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Alcohol Use, Overlapping Time Frames, POV Multiple, POV Second Person, Redemption, Secrets (is that redundant in this fandom?), Skeletons In The Closet, Suicidal Mindset, Suicide Attempts (mentioned), Torture (see end note for more specific details), some harsh language, tied up, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-16 11:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 40,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14810684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaniida/pseuds/Zaniida
Summary: When Finch gets captured in broad daylight, Fusco and Shaw have two hours to track him down (before Reese finds out and turns the city upside down).





	1. White Two-Door

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpicyCheese](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyCheese/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw finds Lionel, dazed, after Finch has just been kidnapped. They hurry to track him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic-Wide Content Warnings in End Note for this chapter.
> 
> Please Note: There are three basic ways you could read this story.
> 
> If you want to focus on Fusco & Shaw trying to track down and help Finch, you could read just the odd-numbered chapters (forgoing the epilogue, if you like). This still describes some of what happened to Finch, but the focus is much less intense.
> 
> If you want to focus on Finch getting captured, then tortured, then recovering from torture, then you could read just the even-numbered chapters. This still describes some of what Shaw and Fusco do, but the focus is much more on Finch's internal state.
> 
> Or, you could read the entire fic, to get both.
> 
> I kinda feel like I could've done better with the POV-swapping by chapters, but I simply did not have time to get that fancy. I'm pretty pleased with how this came out.

“Lionel. Where’s Finch?”

There’s rough concrete under your cheek, and it feels… wet. You blink blearily at a blob of color blocking out part of the sun, before your brain quite connects the blob to the voice and identifies Shaw. It takes a few more seconds to replay the words through your brain and pull out the thread of uncharacteristic concern: _Where’s Finch?_

Groaning, you roll over, try to get up, but then back off with a hiss: Your knees protest when you put pressure on them. You manage at least to sit up, leaning on one arm while trying to place the damage, but suddenly Shaw is right there in your face. It’s dizzying as she checks you over, darting her head around faster than you can follow.

Then her hand is over your eyes; you retreat, but the hand follows the movement, keeping you in darkness. When you reach up to grab her arm, she intercepts you, holds you still.

“What the hell are you—”

Abruptly her hand is gone, and you squint into the sudden brightness, the late afternoon sun. Through your watering eyes, Shaw is a dark blur, but to the side, not blocking the light like she was just a moment ago. After a few seconds, she draws back.

“Headache?”

Not exactly—you hurt, but it’s not on the inside, it’s—

You touch your temple, your fingers coming away wet. Red. It takes you a second to put it together.

Someone blindsided you.

“Headache? Lionel. Focus.”

“Nah, it’s just—” You were standing there, laughing with Glasses over… some odd detail of the case. Closing it up on this end, with Reese finishing the rest of it over in Sag Harbor, now that you’d managed to track down the last piece of the puzzle and relay it to him. Another murderer about to do time, possibly with a busted kneecap; it’s what you would call a good day.

“Where’s Finch? What happened?”

Still dazed, you think back to that moment after the phone call, to the shared relief of having rescued a victim, staved off another untimely death. Cops don’t get to do that so much, not as much as you’d expected during your rookie years; more often, you’re just the cleanup crew after things go south. One of the reasons you’re glad to be on this team, working alongside some of the most frustrating people you know. Lawbreakers, sure, but these guys are doing what the law was _meant_ to do, what you thought you’d _signed up_ to do: Protect the innocent, keep the streets a little safer.

And Finch was there beside you, laughing—

“Eyes on _me_ , Lionel. You with me?”

“Yeah, I’m—”

“What happened?”

How often have you even seen him smile? It’s like a luxury he doesn’t allow himself… maybe more like a weakness, like something he needs to hide, keeping his feelings masked the same way he always bottles himself up inside those fancy suits. And if smiles are rare, laughter is rarer still—at least where anyone could hear him. And yet that unexpected moment caught you off guard, and you were… sharing it with him, standing just outside that… warehouse, and waiting for Shaw to swing by and pick you up because…

…and then there was that car…

“Don’t make me start the questions, Lionel.”

At the best of times, Shaw sounds a little put out with life; right now, her tone’s a bit more pissed than usual. You blink up at her, a bit easier to make out now that there aren’t spots in your eyes, and then something clicks. Oh. Because she just found you unconscious. Bleeding on the sidewalk. And she’s got medical training—

“I’m fine,” you grouse, “just help me up here.”

As Shaw’s pulling you up to your unsteady feet, you’re still searching your memory, trying to put the pieces in order. That car—stopping right beside you, doors opening—should’ve hit your instincts, should’ve… because the businesses here are all closed, and—

—and then, “Professor Hornbill?” and Finch had turned, his eyes going wide—

Being a cop, you learn how to take in a stranger’s notable features pretty fast. But you’d barely registered the basics—male, late 40’s, Asian, short black hair slicked back—when the pain exploded from the side of your head, followed by the crack of your knees as you crumpled to the sidewalk.

Dazed, you’d watched as the two men— _how did you miss that there were two men?_ —cornered Finch right up against the side of the car. He’d glanced at you first, horror painted across his face, before one of them had grabbed him by the chin, directed his attention back at them.

The ringing in your ears had covered over whatever they were saying, but Finch was wide-eyed and breathing fast.

Then you’d blinked, and they were pulling a bag over Finch’s head as he cringed away with nowhere to go—and then they were turning him, yanking his hands behind his back, pulling out a thin rope—

—pulling him back along the car, popping open the trunk, and you… you tried to pull yourself together in time, couldn’t… do anything, nothing but lie there, blinking dazedly until the car peeled out and the darkness finally caught up with you.

And then Shaw.

“Hell, you’re gonna make me ask the questions,” Shaw mutters, rolling her eyes.

“They got Finch,” you get out before she can start. “Two men—”

* * * * *

As Fusco lays out the data, you close your eyes and try to picture it. White car, two-door. He missed the make and model, but it’s not sleek or classic, which narrows it down a bit. Didn’t notice any distinguishing features, decals, bumper stickers, anything like that… but then, a kidnapper sporting bumper stickers would be the worst kind of amateur.

Two doors, though, that’s noticeable, that’s good.

Two Asian men—got a good look at the one, but not the other, just barely enough to classify them together. He’s pretty sure they weren’t Korean or Vietnamese, says he’s gotten fairly good at picking those groups out even if he still can’t tell “most of them” apart. Not the most reliable intel, but it narrows it down to East Asian; you’re (probably) not looking for Indians or Arabs. Heard them say _Professor Hornbill_ , which isn’t a lot, but it didn’t sound like they had a strong accent. So you’re after Americans… or spies.

With anyone but Finch, the chance of spies would be pretty low, but, given what Finch is involved in—what you’re all involved in—it’d be foolish to rule it out. 

On the up side, Fusco’s conscious and alert, if a little disoriented, but that’s going away fast enough that you don’t think it’s a problem. He’s talking, answering questions, pointing out details—you’re not gonna have to ask him who the President is or how many fingers you’re holding up. No worrisome fluids leaking out of his ears or building up beneath the skin in noticeable places.

You had to improvise about the flashlight, but his pupils both contracted, and he doesn’t seem to have a headache. Hasn’t mentioned anything like a seizure.

Which is good, because you don’t have time to be driving him to the hospital when you need to be tracking down Finch.

Reese is two hours away, tip of Long Island, pretty much useless for now. You’re not even going to bother telling him unless he calls you first; out there, he can’t do anything, other than let the worry go to his head. Wasn’t exactly rational the _last_ time Finch got taken.

So you’ve got two hours to track down your boss before his ‘poorly socialized guard dog’ starts tearing apart the city looking for him.

Reese got understandably paranoid after the first time Finch got taken, and that paranoia has, if anything, turned prophetic. So there are two easy ways to track Finch… but you found them both, his phone and his glasses, on the street near Fusco, probably knocked down during the kidnapping.

Makes you wish that GPS tracking units were small enough to be subdermal implants. The smallest you’ve ever seen was still bigger than your thumb, and the transmission itself could be a threat to Finch if anyone else got ahold of the frequency. Finch’s ability to disappear is still worth more than your ability to find him.

Still, not knowing which direction Finch got taken makes you itchy. You get Fusco in the car and head for the nearest gas station, just in case they’re going farther than you think. En route, you try to piece together what you can conclude about the case so far.

It isn’t Root. She doesn’t need goons to grab Finch, doesn’t need to tie him up or throw him in the trunk; just wave a gun at people—even the _thought_ of a gun—and Finch will surrender himself to her care. First time you had to deal with this, he called the cops on his own _partner_. It’s a teamwork flaw that you’re not yet sure how to correct. Or if it’s even correctable.

Besides, Root’s got this weird respect for Finch, this bizarre mix of devoted awe and perverse affection. You honestly can’t see her putting him in the trunk of a car. No, Root’s not behind it… _this_ time, anyway.

 _Hornbill_ ’s interesting. It’s taken you ages to dig into even a handful of Harold’s identities, so it’s not like you’re working from an overabundance of data, but Hornbill sounds like an outlier. Probably not an inhabited identity, like Wren or Finch; more likely a paper suit over an imaginary man. One of his new covers? Or just another piece of his collection, dusted off less frequently than the rest? Is this a new danger, or an old one?

At the gas station, you have Fusco fill up while you hunt through the feeds on Finch’s laptop. It’s his field laptop, the one that you’re allowed to know the password to; it’s also the one with all the neat (and mostly illegal) homebrew apps and algorithms that you spent most of an afternoon exploring, the day after he’d deemed you trustworthy enough to access his secondary login. (Not his primary—that one’s hidden beneath the surface, accessed through command codes, and not even _Reese_ gets the password for that one. Finch himself doesn’t use it unless it’s time to pull out the big guns.)

One of the algorithms works like facial recognition, but for cars, tapping into traffic cams. But you have to feed it a license plate, or at least a make and model—so it’s useless until you can find the car. Should tell Finch to upgrade it for color and more general descriptions.

As you pull out the real-time surveillance access, you recall complaining that the laptop didn’t have a way to match license plates to details. _Afraid that’s a police privilege_ , he’d replied, with a quirk to his lips. _We do need to leave some tasks for the good detectives._

A sense-image flashes through your mind: a heavy bag in your hand. Dropping it at Carter’s feet, under a table. The weapons that really started the ball rolling… countdown to her getting shot just outside the precinct.

Her death doesn’t make you sad, exactly. More like… something’s missing. Carter was a woman with unwavering conviction and good taste in guns; you’d traded snarky comments with her, seen her with her hair down, shared drinks. Had been kinda hoping to get to know her better, and now that’s impossible.

So the feeling that rises up in you—if you could call it that, and you’re not always sure—isn’t so much about her death. It’s not regret; you can’t do anything about the past, so you tend not to dwell on it. Maybe it’s more like wanting to keep a regret from happening in the first place. You can’t save Carter, but you _can_ save Finch, and, right now, that’s the primary mission.

Browsing manually through the feeds, you make some guesses as to likely direction, and, given the traffic, how far they’ve gotten in the past eight minutes. _Nine_ minutes. It’s real-time only, which means you can’t backtrack to where the car started, but the algorithm cracks into more than just traffic cams: anything nearby and online, anything with default or easily guessable passwords, which means shops and even a surprising number of cell phones. But the traffic cams have the best overall coverage.

As Fusco puts the gas nozzle away, you finally spot it: a white two-door on the Expressway, headed southwest. Possibility number one, but it might not be the right car. You’re going to need to hunt for others, as well as getting a good enough shot to make out the license plate, and there’s no way Fusco could make use of the laptop like you can.

When he opens the door, you ask, without looking up, “Feel dizzy at all? Any headache yet?”

“You worried about me while Glasses is in some guy’s trunk?”

“ _Lionel_.”

He considers, shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good—why?”

“Go around—you’re driving,” you say, clambering over the cup holders without letting go of the laptop.

Fusco hesitates. Then he shrugs and heads around as you’re pulling up four views at once, trying to home in on the license plate.

There’s a pause after he starts the car. “…You want me to drive like some old Wisconsin granny so you don’t fly through the windshield when I brake?”

Rolling your eyes, you buckle yourself in one-handed while following the feeds. Partial match; that’s enough to plug into one of Finch’s algorithms, get it running.

“Head for Staten Island,” you say, eyes still glued to the screen as he peels out. Can’t make out if there’s two guys in the car, but—full match, there you go. You plug that into the tracking app before canceling the partial-plate search. Don’t have time to think about it being an out-of-state plate, but you file that tidbit away for later.

Now that the computer’s doing the tracking for you, you start hunting for other possibilities. How many white sports cars in New York? How many within range? Within minutes, you’ve spotted three more, and discarded them all. One’s full of teenagers, windows all rolled down. Another’s covered in political stickers, so much that you’d be surprised if their rearview mirror actually functioned at all.

(The thought crosses your mind that coating your car in noticeable stickers might be a great way to throw off a tail… if you got away and could hide for a bit and had the time to apply them. Still, that doesn’t mesh with this car’s position compared to the kidnapping, and some of the stickers are old, faded, peeling. (You note down the license plate, just in case.))

Third one’s an old goat, more cream-colored than white, not a lot of trunk space, and classy enough that it doesn’t jive with Fusco’s comments earlier.

No, best bet’s on the first hit, and they’re heading straight across the bridge to Staten Island—fifteen minutes ahead of you, with traffic widening the gap. Fusco’s cursing his lack of lights and siren, the easiest way to part the tide, but you tune him out. Now that you’ve got a bead on the captors—probably—you’re focused on not losing them. Finch has been in that trunk for twenty-five minutes now; if it weren’t overcast, if there weren’t a decided chill to the air, he’d be in real danger of heatstroke, and you can’t say that it isn’t a risk even now.

Plus, you know—firsthand, more than once—what it’s like to ride in a trunk, and it’s not pleasant even for a body in great shape, one that’s used to getting bruised up during missions. True, the roads you got driven over were in considerably worse repair than anything you’ve seen in the States, but still.

“Got any painkillers in here?” you ask.

“Glove box,” Fusco responds. “Why?”

“You ever ride in a trunk before?”

He swallows and falls silent, which is fine by you—easier to focus. You don’t have time to hunt through the glove box right now, but at least you know where to find them later. Because Finch is gonna be _sore_.

If you can catch up with him in time, he’ll be alive and free enough to complain about it.

Well before you hit the bridge, the car turns off the Expressway, but the lack of street cam views doesn’t stop Finch’s app—at first. It pulls up data from nearby shops until the car moves into a more residential area and you’re watching the marker on the map sidebar blip in and out between coverage and dead zones.

“Fuck,” you spit out when the feed goes down completely, the map marker blinking their last known whereabouts.

Fusco glances at you. “What?”

“Just keep going. Head north.”

“They heading for Jersey?”

They’re not. Because if they were headed for Jersey, they would have stayed on the Expressway—unless, possibly, they were trying to shake a tail. But they’re not using tricks from Escape & Evasion, or even the amateur attempts that just make you stick out worse.

They’re not the least bit concerned about being followed.

Which could mean that they _intend_ for you to follow them. Could be a trap. But Finch is a far bigger prize than you or Fusco—so unless they’re trying to take out the whole team and lure in Reese…

Okay, the chance of that is pretty low, the chance of it _working_ is even lower, and the Machine would likely have warned you in any case… but the fact that you’re considering a trap scenario means that Reese needs a little more warning than just radio silence.

You pull up Zoe’s number and send a quick text: _If u dont hear frm us by 6PM, frwd 2 John_ , and add in the license plate and this month’s code phrase and _Trackers dn, wht 2dr got F, Sh &Fsc on trail in mins, toward NE Staten. Zoe plz cnfrm u got this ASAP_

That done, you’re back to the problem at hand: Any minute now, they’re going to hole up in some warehouse or garage somewhere, and the chance of you tracking them down in a timely manner goes right out the window. You’re making a guess based on general location, gut instinct, and the fact that they haven’t shown back up on any of the cameras, but you think you can get to their destination—wherever it is—faster if you get off at the exit closest to Jersey.

You’ve narrowed down the search perimeter and cut down their lead, but there’s something gnawing at you. Mostly, it’s the exits they _didn’t_ take. If they were headed all the way up to this corner, then why get off at the second exit instead of the last? Can’t be to pick something up en route, since they didn’t even stop anywhere. If it’s to spare Finch a little damage in the trunk, why not the _first_ exit? What exactly are they playing at?

Are they talking it over, hashing out their game plan before they reach their destination? No. They didn’t grab Finch on a whim. So it’s planned, but they’re, what, wasting time? Waiting for a third party to show up? Waiting to be told the exact meeting place?

Are these guys mercenaries, picking Finch up to deliver him to someone else? Possible. Likely, even. Lionel said that Finch had seemed surprised—even shocked—but was that a reaction to their faces (indicating that he knew them), or merely to the name _Hornbill_? If Finch knows them, who’s the third party?

You rub your forehead, irritated by the lack of concrete data to work from. Figuring out connections on the fly was never your strong suit; that was Cole’s job. Finch’s job. The hand pointing you, pulling your trigger. But you’re a field agent, and adaptability is just as much a part of the job description as being able to strip a rifle or bypass a security alarm.

So they might be meeting a third party. But if they’re not, why the inefficient route? Why wouldn’t you take—

A humorless grin tweaks up the side of your mouth. Ohio plates. They’re _new in town_. They’re used to one specific way of reaching their destination, and they haven’t been around long enough to figure out the best way to get there.

It doesn’t eliminate the chance of a third party, but the chances of them being mercenaries or bounty hunters just took a nosedive. A third party hiring mercenaries would likely choose agents already familiar with the area; if they were hiring out of state, it’d be to choose highly skilled agents, which these guys _aren’t_. Taking their prey while he’s standing next to someone—especially a cop. Knocking out a cop in broad daylight. Standing next to a dazed cop while threatening their victim—and letting the cop, potentially, get a good look at their faces and their car. You could tick off any number of amateur mistakes, including the out-of-state license plate.

Assuming, of course, that it’s not a trap… and also assuming that you’ve tracked the right car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content Warnings (!!SPOILERS!!):**  
>  Harold gets kidnapped by some "old friends" who are mad enough at his betrayal that they have decided to submerge his hands and feet in ice (and worse), with the proposed aim of having him lose his fingers and possibly his feet. The damage isn't ultimately that bad, but I go into detail on how he feels during the torture and during the recovery.
> 
> One character is mentioned to have tried to kill himself multiple times, and to still be at risk of trying again. However, none of the characters actually die in this fic, and even poor Harold's feet are healed by the end.
> 
> There's also first-aid-style nudity -- though the characters keep their undies on.
> 
> I've done my best to represent decent first aid (in fact, had to rework three chapters after finding out that you don't go for the bathtub until after the core temperature is stabilized), but I make no claims as to accuracy. My writing should not be a guide book for actual first aid (though it might be a starting point for research).
> 
> As to other tags, I may miss some. Please feel free to point them out in the comments.


	2. Movement (Harold POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tied up in the trunk of his kidnappers, Harold can do little but ride it out.

There’s a point where a person’s mistakes catch up with them—and your life is replete with the kind of mistakes that like to track you down.

The kind that get you captured.

This isn’t the first time that you’ve been tied up, but it’s the first time you’ve been tumbled into the trunk of a car. The first time that physical force has been used against you, instead of mere threats. It’s bizarre, to have enough kidnappings under your belt that you can compare and contrast them. Prior to this afternoon—starting, in point of fact, with that very first terrifying experience—it has _always_ been threats.

 _I won't shoot you. I'll shoot someone else_.

 _Make a sound, I start hurting innocents_.

Root called it your “flaw,” and, at first, you rejected that idea: How could caring about other people be a flaw? But you’ve come to understand the idea, to accept it as a bitter truth. You hold the knowledge that could change the world, or destroy it; risking that destruction because you can’t bear to see an innocent die is… irrational. It gives evil men power they should never have, and puts at risk a much greater group of equally innocent people.

And yet.

There’s a moment, the moment you first resigned yourself to being in the power of someone you could have stopped. It would only have taken a shout, a few words; Root might well have escaped custody, but you would have been free, the fear and danger behind you.

At that moment, as you sat there in deliberate silence, heart sinking as you watched the policeman pay for his coffee and smile at the waitress and walk out of the diner, some small part of you shattered forever.

 _I'll shoot someone else_.

That’s all she had to say. All she’s ever had to say, or even to imply. It’s been enough to get you to go passive, to cooperate—even, one time, to call the police on your own partner, just to keep him out of the way. The people who have wanted to capture you have never needed to grab you by the arm or shove you against a car or pull a bag over your head.

Not that the Okamotos would know that. They’ve been in prison for a good twenty-eight years; it’s understandable that they’d be somewhat behind the times.

So you’re in their trunk, arms behind your back, your own weight cutting off circulation to half your body; you’re bracing with one leg to keep from rolling onto your stomach, because being face-down is somewhat more literal when you’ve got titanium pins that prevent your neck from turning sideways.

And you’re already having trouble breathing through the cotton that’s pinned to your face, catching the warmth of each breath; in here, in the increasing heat of this metal box, it’s _stifling_. As you focus on taking long, slow breaths through the fabric, you’re also fighting to stay in charge of your emotions, to stave off the growing panic as the minutes stretch out and the car gets farther and farther from your friends.

Sweat stings at your eyes. More of it runs down your forehead, and a shudder runs through you at the image of Fusco, crumpled to the sidewalk, blood pooling over the concrete. Seeing him go down had frozen you in your tracks, but he’d been—he’d been moving again, just a little, right before Ken grabbed you and Daichi pulled a bag over your head. So he’s _probably_ okay. You take first aid classes twice a year; you know that head wounds bleed more than other wounds do. There’s a lot of blood vessels, so even a little cut can look ghastly.

That knowledge has never made you feel better at the sight of Reese all bloodied up—and it does little to staunch the worry over Fusco.

Still, Shaw’s got medical training—more than just the basics of first aid—and she had been only minutes away; you’d been on GPS double-checking her whereabouts, and Reese’s, when the car pulled up beside you. _She’s found him by now, she’s got the training to help him, to get him the help he needs_ …

But what that means for you, right now, is that the amount of time it takes Shaw to care for Fusco is the amount of delay they have in getting on your trail. Which could, conceivably, mean the difference between finding you in time and… not. You still don’t know what your former associates might have planned.

The rapid shifts in speed and direction have been murder on your neck, but then there’s a few agonizing seconds where you’re pressed to the back as the car accelerates up to what you can only guess are freeway speeds, and then you’re on a long, steady portion with a smoother road and more gentle curves. So you’re on the Expressway, although there’s no telling which direction.

How long have you been in here? Ten minutes? Fifteen? It hasn’t been half an hour yet, you don’t think, but already the pain in your lower back has shifted from mild through difficult-to-ignore and on toward excruciating. Even so, you’ve dealt with pain this bad just from the aftermath of a particularly strenuous day in the field, the kind of cases where John’s tasks are too complex or too numerous to handle by himself.

John. John will certainly come for you, the moment he learns that you’ve been taken. But he’s two and a half hours away. Whatever the Okamotos have planned for you… is it going to take that long? If it is, you’re not going to like it… but you can hold out. Probably. You’ve gotten good at that. Not that you’ll ever be comfortable getting kidnapped—really, who would?—but you do have some practice in it. Just have to stay calm and wait for rescue.

And keep breathing.

It probably won’t be two hours, unless Fusco was badly injured. Shaw was close, and Fusco saw them take you; your friends are on the trail. It’s taken you quite a while to get to the point where “trust” is even part of your vocabulary when it comes to other human beings, but you trust them to put your safety above almost every other concern. So you trust that rescue is coming; you just don’t know how soon.

Being battered about this way has given you an odd sort of nostalgia for the first time Root had you in her power. At least being zip-tied to a chair hadn’t given you nausea or bruises—though it hadn’t taken even an hour to get to the stabbing back pains. Due to your injuries, you need to switch position frequently, but she’d kept you in that chair long enough that you lost track of the hours, eventually measuring time by the gasps of the man that she was slowly torturing to death before your eyes.

This darkness can hardly compare to that horror; at least you’re the only one at risk right now. But the pain is so much worse. There’s nothing here like the cushioning of a car seat; every bump and swerve knocks your head against the thin carpet—and the metal beneath it. The Expressway’s a bit of an improvement, but you still get unexpected jolts of pain that make you dizzy and bring tears to your eyes.

With your hands tied behind you, you haven’t been able to find a better position, a way to shield yourself from the unpredictable motion. Lying on your stomach would be impossible; rolling onto your bound arms would put even more strain on your lower back, and you’re not convinced that you could hold your head up all that well. Curling up into the best fetal position you can manage has helped, a little; tensing up hasn’t, so you’ve done your best to go limp, with just the one leg still bracing you, keeping you in the best position you can maintain.

The sound shifts—almost like you’re going through a tunnel. Could be the Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel… or the bottom layer of the Verrazano. Up to Manhattan or over to Staten Island… you’ve been through both of them, many times, and yet you’ve never tried to tell them apart by sound alone, much less from the muffled sounds that make it into the trunk.

Whichever it is, though, it’s only a couple of minutes later before the sound’s back to normal, and then you’re moving off and slowing down, back to city traffic. No… quieter, you think. Fewer cars. It takes you a few minutes to pick up on the other key sound—or lack of it: no horns. Not Manhattan, then. But the roads aren’t in great repair, and the constant and unexpected changes of pressure on your bound arms is a growing agony.

It’s increasingly difficult to stay calm and let your body relax, or to call up the mental tricks you use daily to keep from dwelling on the pain. And as the ride gets longer, you get hotter, and sweatier, and dizzier. You start to lose track of time.

Eventually, though, there’s a few more swerves, and then the car slows and turns, rocks to a stop and then moves forward another few feet before the engine cuts out.

You breathe.

Car doors—you feel the rock and dip of the car and then hear the slams. A moment later, the sound and feel of the trunk popping open. Fear makes your stomach clench.

One of them grabs you under the armpits, drags you up and out with no concern for your comfort; hardly surprising. They’ve got you on your feet, now, and they’re muscling you along, up a short set of stairs, in through a doorway… the air heats up a little, not much but noticeably, and it’s not hard to guess that you’ve just left a garage.

You stumble along without resistance, letting them direct you through some amount of space before they’re turning you and taking you down some stairs—one in front of you, one behind. Steep stairs, and cooler air— _much_ cooler, this time, quite chilling to your damp skin; you can make out the whirr of an air conditioning unit. A basement, most likely.

One of them holds you by both arms, pushing your body to one side and the other while his brother maneuvers your legs, pulling off your shoes, your socks. And then he guides your feet up and over something, some thin piece of plastic maybe, until you’re standing on a surface that is not the floor of this basement.

They untie your hands and remove your suit jacket right before forcing you down into a chair; the returning circulation is just starting to get painful as they tie your knees.

Ankles.

Elbows.

Chest.

You don’t struggle; there’s no point.

 

After the ropework is done, there’s the rustle of fabric, for a couple of minutes.

And then the bag comes off.

“Well, hey, Professor,” one of them says, jovially, before you’ve blinked the spots out of your eyes enough to tell them apart. “Care for a drink?”

The smell of vodka hits you hard, and your stomach turns over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finch is tied up in the trunk of someone's car; it is not a pleasant ride. He thinks back to Fusco, knocked out and with a head wound that bleeds.


	3. Tracking Algorithms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Fusco drives, Shaw plies all her skills—and the best of Finch's homebrew algorithms—to tracking down the kidnappers before it's too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doesn't look like any content warnings apply to this chapter.

“They heading for Jersey?”

Shaw doesn’t answer you. She toys with the laptop and then taps out something on a phone, while you frown and focus on driving.

As you turn north, though, she lets out a satisfied grunt.

“You find out where they’re going yet?”

Her grunt’s a little more negative this time. “No more camera feeds. But I think we’ve got a lead on ’em—might be able to cut ’em off.”

Ha. “You defying the laws of physics now, or mastering time travel?”

“Lionel, don’t be obtuse.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m just the driver.” You’re a cop; you know the fastest routes to get to anywhere in New York, because _that’s_ a big part of your job. And that includes cutting people off at the borders, because that’s part of your job, too, on occasion; letting police matters cross state lines leads to a whole lot more headaches, on account of jurisdictions and paperwork and occasional cases that get thrown out of court due to distinctions between the laws of one state and the laws of its neighbor.

But sure, yeah, you can catch up to these guys with a regular car pushing four miles over the speed limit with no lights and no siren and the distinct need to avoid police interest in your activities. While they have, what, a fifteen-minute lead? Hell, they’ve already crossed the border if they’re still on the—

Grimacing, you shoot Shaw a dirty look, because that’s less about you being obtuse and more about her being too tight-lipped to point out that they ain’t even on the Expressway anymore, and that you probably just passed the exit they took. And yeah, you just worked it out from the information given, but this ain’t how teams are supposed to work.

Not that she considers you a teammate. Not exactly. Not _yet_ , maybe; could be that someday she will, assuming that the two of you live long enough and keep working together. She values you, protects you, saved your son’s life—but there’s an element of trust to being teammates, and that ain’t there yet.

And you used to think that working with _Reese_ was frustrating.

Sometimes it grates on you, being at their beck and call for years now and yet not even accorded the kind of respect they give the _dog_. Sure, they got covert ops training and a world-class hacker and you’re just a regular schmoe who started off as a security guard and somehow got the idea that being a public defender was _noble_ or something, before you got pulled into the hidden dark side of the police force. But they still call you in to handle all the little tasks they can’t be bothered with, or to break the law because your credentials make it easier to get away with it. Easier on _them_ —a pain in the ass for _you_ , more often than not. And it doesn’t seem like Shaw thinks any better of you than the other two do.

You turn north and let all that irritation out with a breath. Don’t even matter, really, what she thinks of you—not today. What matters, today, is that you’re both focused on the same goal: tracking down Glasses and the guys who took him, and getting him back intact. Ideally before the news of his capture reaches Reese.

Because yeah, you might gripe about their treatment of you, but you still care about Finch’s welfare. He’s out of touch sometimes, pretty curt sometimes, and he mostly contacts you when he needs something and hardly at all for any friendlier reason, but… he’s a nice guy, and he’s honestly trying to help people, even when it hurts him. Even when it puts him in danger.

He don’t deserve whatever it is that these guys got planned for him. And even if he somehow did, you’re all too aware of a few key points:

Finch is good for the city.

Reese is good for the city, but only because of Finch.

Losing Finch could make Reese very _bad_ for the city. Maybe for the _country_. You’ve seen Reese lose it before, and you’re gonna do whatever it takes to keep him from going off the deep end again.

The next exit’s coming up fast. You glance over at Shaw, still absorbed in whatever tracking software Finch has on that souped-up laptop of his. Probably—ha. _Definitely_ got some illegal stuff going on there. Which is probably the only reason that you’ve been able to track him down this fast.

“So where we getting off, then?”

“Second exit,” she says, otherwise ignoring you.

Minutes later, you roll off toward Port Richmond, hoping you’re gonna be fast _enough_.

* * * * *

The residential areas don’t have any cameras at all, not any ones that Finch’s automated software can reliably hook into. Which leaves you running blind. But you can make some good guesses about location, working from where you last saw them and the kind of choices they _didn’t_ make.

That, and the assurance that they’re not doubling back or hitting the Expressway again. Because the app would definitely let you know if they turned up on camera again. Which means that they’re hidden among a few dozen homes and a few shops—they’re in a kill box.

On other missions, that’s the sort of thought that could make you grin: Tracking them down is only a matter of time.

Of course, it’s time that Finch might not _have_ , which is what keeps you focused on the task right now.

If they were trying to shake a tail, you could predict their movements with a fair amount of accuracy: more right turns than normal, some doubling back, turning against obvious routes. But you’ve already discarded that likelihood. So unless they show up on the cameras again, you don’t have any way to predict their route; they’re most likely headed for a house, one random house out of dozens, and you’ve already spotted a few garages. Unless you spot them soon, you may not even spot them at all.

 

As Fusco leaves the Expressway, you point him at your best guess for directions, and start running through the list of apps, trying to figure out if Finch has something else that might help you here. And that’s right when your phone beeps.

 _Msg received; will frwd to John if I don’t hear back from you by 6 PM. Good luck_.

That’s set, then: If anything happens to you, John will get the information he needs to come after you—and he won’t be running blind.

Also means that Zoe’s around, should you need her, but for the moment you can’t imagine anything she could do to help you out on this one.

If Root were around, she could ask the Machine—Finch may not like the idea, but it’s got access to all the wireless cameras in the area, and probably knows exactly where its daddy’s been hidden.

Of course, it also didn’t alert you before he got taken. Which may mean that it honestly didn’t see it in time… or that it knows the kidnapping isn’t likely to be lethal… or that it’s acting on the instruction that Finch once mentioned to you, that his safety is not to be a priority on the Machine’s list of goals. Only thing is, the Machine _has_ , in the past, demonstrated that kind of concern, so you’re not sure that it’s following that order anymore.

Okay, no Machine. The apps aren’t helping. Fusco’s reached the end of your instructions and is driving kinda randomly at this point, scanning the street. Neighborhoods like this are composed of discrete little boxes; there’s no way to reliably cover it all with any efficiency, not like a maze where you stick your hand on the wall and follow it until you’re out of the dungeon. He’s running blind, and you need to get him the intel; it’s what you’re trained for.

Finch’s aliases tend to be well hidden; researching Hornbill would probably take too long, and might not even give you the connection you’re aiming for. You don’t have enough information on the kidnappers to track them down, except… you do know the license plate now. Assuming they didn’t just steal the car, you should be able to—

 _Afraid that’s a police privilege_.

You shoot Fusco a look. “How long does it take to look up a license plate?”

“In my car? Couple of minutes. If I have to call it in? Depends on how busy they are.”

“Pull over.”

It’s probably not going to be in time, but you give him the plate and have him call it in. “And cross-reference with homes in this area.” That’s a long shot, given the out-of-state license plate; either they only moved in a couple months ago, or they still live out of state and whatever house they’re heading for isn’t theirs. But right now you’re reaching for possibilities, because you don’t have anything concrete. You need to be faster than this.

Before Fusco can protest, you’re out of the car and jogging down the sidewalk. Scanning the nearby buildings, especially those with closed garages (which isn’t a lot of them) or parking spots behind the house itself.

It’s edging on toward twilight; your time is running out. With your emotions turned down the way they are, panic stays at the very edge of your awareness. Which is good, because you need a clear head—that’s the most important asset an operative can have.

Going by statistical likelihood and your own gut instinct, you discard those houses that look or sound like normal family activities, those with kids’ toys on the lawn, with windows and doors left open for anyone to look inside. Those with fancy cars, because the guy who buys a blue Jag with custom details doesn’t seem likely to also own a little two-door not-even-sporty car in plain white paint. Those with fancy gardens, because these guys didn’t seem like crime lords, and if they were the fancy type, they likely wouldn’t have a house with this small of a yard.

But there’s nothing that stands out, nothing that seems obvious. And you don’t have time to go checking out each of the possibilities—

Your earpiece beeps; you tap it and get Fusco’s voice in your ear. “Owner’s name is Daichi Okamoto,” he says. “Doesn’t live around here. He’s got a brother, Ken, who might be the other guy. No housing records in the area, but he owns a Jaguar F-Type convertible—”

“Blue and fancy?” you ask, but you’ve already turned on your heel and you’re sprinting back down the sidewalk, full tilt, wondering why you discarded a place with a garage when the Jag’s in the _driveway_. Who owns a brand-new Jag that nice and leaves it in the driveway after dark? In New York City? And you didn’t even think to notice whether it had Ohio plates or not.

Four minutes later, you’re gasping from the run and staring at a two-story house with a windowless garage, basement, attic… yeah, okay, this is where Finch is being held. Eighty-five percent certain.

You relay the address to Fusco. “I’m scoping out the place, but you better get here soon. Because in about two minutes I am going in—with or without you.” He grumbles at that, but you just roll your eyes and start a proper recon check.

“Look,” he says. “I got your back, all right? But you gotta let me _get_ there.”

“No windows on the garage,” you observe aloud, trying to remember that you’re a team now. He may not be Cole, but he’s your backup, and keeping him in the dark could mean endangering Finch, so you’re gonna play nice—for the moment. “No cameras that I can see.”

It’s hard to make out much just by street lamps, but the basement windows have been blacked out; tiny shafts of light leak out through cracks in the paint, not even big enough to see through. “Lights on in the basement… windows blacked out.” You drop to the grass next to one and close your eyes, listening, but all you can hear is the steady hum of air conditioning. Still, that’s one more point in favor of this place being the one—it could help mask the noise of whatever’s going on in there.

Fusco’s still trying to talk you out of going in early, but you’re not willing to wait on this. You’re used to solo missions, heading into the rough bits with some extra intel in your ear but no extra weapon by your side. Kept things easy, because you never had to worry about friendly fire: Every moving creature in the room was a legitimate target.

Of course, you weren’t heading in to rescue people. Quite the opposite. When people needed to be rescued, you weren’t the kind of agent they’d call in.

Getting used to the new team has meant getting used to a little more front-lines support, which has been… trying, if you’re honest with yourself. Sometimes a relief; other times, a pain. And that’s with Reese, who’s got all the training to match you toe to toe, or with Root, who’s got the voice of a digital god in her ear.

For all his earnest determination, Fusco is never gonna be on par with any of you. Not in that way. Of course, you’ve also noticed that he’s got more skill than people (including Reese) give him credit for. Yeah, he’s fun to tease, but he’s also smart, and he pays attention to detail, much of the time; he’s… aware. Sometimes he has trouble figuring out how all the details fit together; other times, he works out the big picture faster than the rest of you—depends on if it’s in one of his areas of expertise. Or, sometimes, if it’s an area that you and Reese are blind to, those areas that normal people know instinctively and covert agents get trained out of them early on. Fusco’s a good reminder of the way that normal people think.

In his better moments, Fusco’s an admirable teammate—and, from what you hear, he’s come a long way as far as trying to do the right thing most of the time. Finch’s little crusade has that kind of effect on people.

But relying on Fusco for backup is a bit of a crutch, and the thought of waiting for him now—waiting while Finch might be in pain, might be dying—is chafing at you.

You move around to the back door, wishing you had that flashlight. No alarm, you don’t think. No windows open—no shortcuts. Reaching into the side of your boot, you pull out your lockpicks. Not a tool you use all that often; don’t have the patience. If you know the kind of job you’re in for, you’ve got faster tools in your backpack; if not, well, you can usually get quick results by manipulating people. But you don’t know enough about these guys to judge whether knocking on the door would help or hurt—so you’re gonna stick to the element of surprise.

It takes forty seconds longer than you’d like it to take, but it’s still pretty good timing for doing it in the dark; the door comes open and you stash the lockpicks again.

“I’m going in,” you murmur. “Back door.”

“Will you cool your jets a minute? I’m almost—”

“We don’t know what they’re doing to him in there.” You pause, take a breath. “I’m going in slow, Lionel, but I’m going on in.”


	4. Payback (Harold POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold's former associates reveal their plans for him.

You’re tied to a chair in a chilled room, and Ken Okamoto, thirty-two years older than when you last saw him in person, is holding out a glass of vodka. Filled with what looks like three or four shots of the stuff.

Vodka is one liquor that you’ve never tasted as an adult. You were still a minor—as was Daichi—when you toasted your new venture with a few shots of “the good stuff” (as Ken called it, and you two were choking too much to argue with the term, forcing it down repeatedly to show that you were _mature_ ).

That was a week before it all went wrong. So vodka is ingrained in your memory as a reminder of one of the worst mistakes you’ve ever made.

Which is exactly why he’s doing this, isn’t it?

“Come on, now,” he says, “it’s been a few decades since we shared a drink. Here, I’ll even take a sip myself.” And he does, a good big sip before he holds the glass out to you again, expectantly.

You keep your lips closed, gaze fixed firmly on his eyes.

His smile fades. “Look, it’s not poisoned. I don’t hate you _that_ much. Dai and I want a little payback, sure, but we’re not planning to _kill_ you.”

“What _are_ you planning to do?” you ask, quietly, taking in the sparsely decorated room and the two large freezers in the back corners. There’s nothing else in here that gives you the slightest clue as to what’s coming.

“I’ll be glad to explain, as soon as you’ve shared a drink with us. That’s how this whole thing started, after all, and it seems fitting to end it the same way.”

When you simply stare at him, he grimaces; he never _was_ that good at controlling his expression. Daichi steps up and takes the glass from him, shooting him a look as Ken moves out of view. Then the younger Okamoto looks you over. His face is calm, solemn. It’s an odd look on him, because he was the type to fixate on _causes_ , which he took seriously until some new fascination caught his eye, but he never—in all the time you knew him—really _looked_ like he was serious.

Then again, he did just spend three decades behind bars. It’s not hard to imagine that that could change a person, especially one as sensitive as Dai.

“Are you on narcotics?” he asks. “Because I can understand if you don’t want to mix alcohol with prescription drugs. Painkillers, antidepressants, blood thinners… insulin?”

“I’m not in the habit of sharing drinks with people who have me tied to a chair,” you counter.

“Well.” He accepts a second glass from Ken’s hand; Ken’s holding one as well. “Assuming you’re not in additional danger from drug interactions, then here’s the deal: We’re going to drink to the memory of the girl I left behind. And then I’ll tell you why we brought you here.”

Your stomach clenches tight again at the mention of Iffaa.

 

When you first ran across the Okamotos, Daichi was stuck on this Lebanese girl. She’d been a foreign exchange student, gone home two years before they met you, and Dai simply would not shut _up_ about her. Avoiding the massive fees of international calling was what had pulled him into phone phreaking to begin with; he called her once a month, at a specific time, from a different payphone each time, and they exchanged what letters they could, in between.

It was impossible to hang around Daichi without getting filled in on the details of Iffaa’s life. Even at the arcade, shooting down aliens or centipedes—or playing his favorite game, Frogger—he’d be discussing her hair, or her eyes, or her interest (two years prior) in Pink Floyd and Thin Lizzy.

In his darker moments, he’d talk about the little war-torn area she came from. The area that Dai was dead set on “rescuing” her from, as the civil war flared and the area got increasingly unstable.

In fact, were it not for that girl, your ideas for racking up millions by scamming banks never would have gone anywhere. You’d idly discuss the possibility with Ken while playing _Wolfenstein_ , but you didn’t really have any specific plans; it was Daichi who realized that acquiring ten thousand dollars might go a long way toward achieving his most heartfelt goal.

The summer you ran into Daichi—noticed him taking apart a payphone, gave him a few tips, struck up a cautious friendship that soon extended to his older brother as well—you’d just finished a year at MIT, having brazenly hacked yourself onto their enrollment list before you’d even found an apartment. It was the birth of Harold Wren. It would be another year and a half before you met Arthur, before he dragged you over to meet Nathan. The young farm boy masquerading as the reclusive rich, meeting the young rich boy with dozens of followers, who valued anyone who connected with his brain and not just his trust fund.

Before that point, before Nathan set your compass, you’d been rudderless. As a child, you hadn’t thought much about your talents; as a young teen, you had expected someday to see your father’s eyes light up at the tales of your success, the kind of exploits that he knew you would someday be capable of… but that hope had been taken from you, even before you’d been forced to go on the run. Unable to go home, you were drifting; the only constant besides paranoia was improving your skills, and you had barely begun to actually put them to use before that summer.

Paying for tuition had been a simple task, finding nearly untraceable ways to use the fledgling internet to funnel numbers around, siphon off just enough money to meet tuition and account for your modest needs, while you figured out what else to do with your life. You’d been comfortable enough; the thought of amassing millions was still just a daydream, not very real at the time.

It was Daichi who pushed you to actually put together a competent plan, who got the train started down the track that led to the brothers’ eventual incarceration.

What Dai isn’t aware of is what happened after the plan went to hell.

After Dai and Ken got caught, you fled Ohio, sloughing off that old identity like snakeskin. The money was yours, unexpectedly, and something you didn’t have to share three ways; you went from providing for your needs on a weekly basis to erecting a life around yourself as though you’d had the money for decades. Surreptitiously keeping a finger on the pulse of the tech wars, you invested with pinpoint accuracy, and saw thirty thousand dollars bloom into millions, then _tens_ of millions, more than you had ever expected to have at your disposal—and that was before Nathan talked you into forming IFT.

But your increasingly luxurious lifestyle had come at great cost: the Okamotos. At the time, they had been the closest thing you had to friends—and they had lost it all because of you. And there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it on your own. Messing with their prison sentences proved impossible with just hacking, and you hadn’t yet developed the skills or the unabashed courage to tackle anything more hands-on.

So you’d tried to make it up to Daichi with the only thing that you could reasonably manage on your own: You tracked down Iffaa and her remaining family (an uncle and young cousin) and gotten them the hell out of Dodge. Set them up in New Jersey, provided the funds necessary to start over, ensured that they would never be left wanting.

It could have been a fairytale ending for that little family, except that her uncle got killed in a car crash that left Iffaa—not yet 21—missing an eye. But accidents are, by nature, impossible to predict. You’d given them the best chance they had, and a far better one than remaining in a country at war. After you covered the doctor’s bills, Iffaa picked up her life and raised her cousin, eventually got married, started a family of her own. You’ve kept tabs on her through the years, just to reassure yourself that she’s doing okay.

Knowing all of this would likely put Daichi’s mind at ease. More or less.

And you can’t tell him any of it.

 

Talking with Iffaa, if only briefly, had made it clear that she had never thought of Dai in a romantic light. An amusing pen pal, to be sure, but their mindsets and worldviews were far too different to provide a stable foundation for any sort of long-term relationship beyond friendship. If Dai had been told that at the time… well, you didn’t know him long enough or deeply enough to really predict how he’d act.

And that’s the problem. That endearing, annoying, energetic young man with idealism seeping out through his pores has spent three decades being molded into… something else. And you don’t know what that is.

Two years ago, Reese went up against a man named Ulrich Kohl, a former Stasi agent out for revenge after the murder of his wife. Like Dai, Kohl had spent decades in prison, and he had used those years to plot his revenge against the ones who had betrayed him. Once free, he’d tracked down and murdered one man after another, until it led him to the discovery that his wife was alive—alive and happy and living a comfortable life in America while he rotted away in a German cell.

He’d counted that a betrayal as well, tracked down his wife and the daughter he’d never known, and terrorized both before pointing a weapon at them. You’ll never know for sure if Kohl was planning to kill Anja, if he would have followed through with it if he’d had any ammo left, but that’s the kind of risk that you would never take with an innocent life.

Iffaa’s less than an hour away, and she’s happy. Probably hasn’t thought about Daichi in years; how often does your mind go back to a quirky boy you knew for a few months when you were a teen? Injecting him back into her life right now would be enough of a disruption, and that’s without considering what Dai might want to do.

Would he consider it a betrayal, that she all but forgot him? Moved on without him? Didn’t even try to track him down? Would he hate her for having a good life, while his efforts to save her had landed him in hell?

Prior to today, you might have granted him the benefit of the doubt. The Daichi you knew, however briefly, would leave the room during violent movie scenes; the thought of people getting hurt could make him physically ill. Even the fights he got into in prison—one small part of the bad behavior that lengthened a sixteen-year sentence to twenty-eight—could’ve been excused as situational; you can’t even imagine what it’s been like, living in that environment. And yet, Daichi the grown man has just assaulted a police officer en route to kidnapping a former associate. Tied you up in a basement, and just admitted to wanting a little “payback.” It’s no longer possible to think of him as innocent.

On top of that, Ken was never the creative type. If he’d been in charge of this operation, he’d probably have just beaten you up, or, if the bitterness had sunk that deep, gone ahead and killed you outright. No, this plan is all Daichi, and you’re not sure how far off the deep end he’s gone.

So you can’t let them know about Iffaa—even if it costs you your life.

 

Daichi’s eyes sparkle as he holds the drink out for you; he’s smiling, friendly as ever, while he waits for your decision.

Three shots… not enough to get you drunk; you’re hardly the lightweight you used to be. It’s not an olive branch, but it’s not likely to kill you… though it might well be laced with something unpleasant. But Ken took a sip himself, so either it’s based on dosage, or he’s already taken the antidote, or it’s not a serious poison or disease. Unless it’s a disease he already has; HIV rates in prison are five times the average rate of infection. But you hope that you would have picked up on that, seen some hint of it through your surveillance—additional doctor visits, treatments—and you saw nothing to make you suspect they were living on borrowed time.

A more worrisome thought is some sort of drug, maybe a truth serum. Something that could make you talk about Iffaa. Or the Machine, which would be worse—imagine what these two might do if they got it in their heads that you had access to a power like that! But if they were trying to get you to talk, what would be their immediate goal? What do you have that they might want? Money, obviously, but there are easier ways to get it from you. What else?

A slight headache is creeping up through your temples, a side effect of the cool air; you’re on the edge of shivering, an unresolved tension as your muscles tighten up against the cold. The sweat is evaporating off your skin, slowly lowering your body temperature. If your hands were free, you’d be rubbing your arms by now. But you’re not free; all you can do is try to force your body to relax and accept being colder than you’d like to be.

It’s making it a little hard to think.

Might as well eliminate one possibility, even though it’s implausible, even though the suggestion is likely to offend them and make you look like a fool. “I don’t suppose you want money,” you assert, searching Dai’s face.

He doesn’t lose the smile, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “What I want,” he says, calmly, “is for you to drink this glass. We’ll worry about the rest later.”

Best get this charade over with. “I don’t think I will, thank you.”

“Well, it's not up to you,” he says, tone still light, as if he’s chatting with a friend. “Either you cooperate, and drink this, or I tip your head back and pour it down your throat.”

The chance of that being merely vodka is next to nothing. Drinking it is a threat. Your main hope—your only hope, really, and how is that any different from normal?—would be for your friends to get here… either to get you medical aid, or to prevent you from saying things that these two mustn’t know.

Regardless, you don’t have a choice—not any more than when Root shoved a needle into your neck. So you take in a breath, lick your lips, and nod very lightly. “If that’s how this is going to go.”

Dai’s smile broadens into a grin. “See?” he says brightly, to Ken. “Told you he’d be reasonable.” Ken grunts, but Dai just moves to your side and holds the cup to your lips, tilting it carefully so as not to spill.

Before the liquor even hits your throat, your stomach turns over from the smell alone, but you fight back the urge to vomit and manage to swallow what he gives you. When it’s over, he draws back, the smile far more genuine this time.

“There we go. Not so hard, hmm? Let’s get this started.”

There are two large fans, set against opposite walls; the brothers pull them out a ways and aim them at you, clicking them onto the lowest setting. The sudden air tips you over the edge, no longer able to keep from shivering. And it’s probably about to get a lot worse.

With the pins in your neck, you can’t turn your head to see what Ken is doing, but you feel something thin and hard slide up inside the cuff of your sleeve. A knife. He’s working along the seam while Dai starts unbuttoning your vest, and then your shirt, pulling open layers as your sleeve falls off in Ken’s hand. As Ken gets to work on the other side, you close your eyes, and soon enough that sleeve comes off as well, and you’re sitting there with bare arms and just your undershirt and the rope between your chest and the chill around you.

Except you’re feeling a little warmer, now, like a heat radiating out from your stomach, warming your skin. And your eyes fly open when you make the connection: That’s the point of the vodka. Alcohol makes you feel warmer, but it dilates blood vessels, makes you lose heat faster. If they’re trying to cool you down, then alcohol is a force multiplier.

Ken chuckles darkly, holding up what used to be your sleeves. “Guess you finally grew into the suit concept, huh? I remember your spats with Dai over the kind of clothes that suited our operation. ’Course, you’ve had a few decades to get used to them… we’ve been, well, wearing a different kind of suit until quite recently.”

“I know. And I’m sorry,” you add, knowing it’s cold comfort to men who’ve had the better parts of their years stolen from them.

Dai sneers, the first negative expression you’ve seen on him tonight. “Well, too bad it took you thirty-odd years to regret what you did to us.”

Teeth chattering, you shake your head. Not thirty years. Not even one. It’s just that the damage had been done, and, back then, you didn’t have the skill necessary to do anything about it. But you’ve never forgotten—never let yourself stop thinking about them. One of your earliest mistakes.

It’s the road that your life could have taken, but for a little luck. Good luck for you, and bad luck for them. And if they see you as a traitor, well… they’re not exactly wrong.

Wisps of fog roll out when Ken opens one of the freezers and roots around inside, but your attention gets drawn back to Daichi, who’s pulling your hand down into a little bucket attached to the side of the chair, and tying it so that you can’t pull it free. He calmly does the same to your other side, and already your breath is coming faster because you’re starting to get a hint of what they might be planning to do to you.

“I want you to understand,” Ken says evenly, as he hands Daichi a large blue gel pack, the kind used for sports injuries; he’s holding one as well, covered in frost. “See, we’ve been thinking about this a long time. What we’d do if we ever ran into you again. And Dai got the idea that it ought to be… poetic. The kind of punishment you actually deserve.”

“It’s your clever fingers that got us all in trouble,” Dai says, and they bend as one to secure the ice packs around your wrists—not tight, but firmly attached to the skin, the cold seeping through immediately.

Another trip to the freezers, and they’re back to pour tiny cubes of ice down into the buckets, packing it all around your hands. Then Ken measures out some table salt and pours it into the bucket at his side before handing the salt and the measuring cup over to Dai.

At first, the sensation is merely a cold, muted, uncomfortable tingle, difficult to put up with, but something you think you could probably bear for a while; it’s not like you’re a stranger to discomfort, and the tricks used to get around it. All too soon, though, it’s like your hands have been set in liquid fire, and you can’t help but squirm, straining against the ropes and trying in vain to pull free.

By the time they bring back the next round, you’re already panting. As they crouch by your feet, you gasp out, “Please—please—”

Daichi grins as they tie gel packs around your ankles and start filling the basin with ice, packing it in around your feet.

“You didn’t have to run off, you know. I get that you were scared. And we were young. But if you had stuck to the plan—if you had been there when we needed you—we’d have all gotten out, together.”

“So this is for running off,” Ken adds as he pours the salt on, and you draw in shuddering breaths as your feet start to cramp up.

“We thought about, like, fire, or acid, or maybe just cutting them off.” Daichi gets in close, staring into your eyes with greater intensity than you’ve ever seen from him before. “But we decided on cold because, hey, takes a pretty cold heart to leave your partners in prison for twenty-eight years, and just move on with your life.”

He makes a moue. “It’s been… interesting,” he muses, “seeing what you’ve been up to in our absence. You know, you never told us that you were already in MIT. Guess that’s one more sign that you didn’t trust us, huh? And then you ended up working for IFT, of all places…”

“Nice cover, by the way.” Ken’s holding a fresh ice pack; you don’t want to guess where the next one’s going. But he doesn’t put it on right away, just stands there, watching you shake uncontrollably. “Bet they never figured out that some low-level engineer was actually robbing their company blind—from the inside.” He walks around behind you, and you suck in a breath as he wraps the ice pack around the back of your neck. A moment later he’s taping it down with thick pieces of duct tape, all along the shoulders.

“So it looks like you’ve been doing well for yourself,” Dai says. “Bit of a limp, sure, we noticed that much. But you don’t get suits like this”—he tugs at the lapels, and carefully tucks the ice pack in under your collar—“without a hefty pocketbook.”

At this point, you’d offer them every dime you had to get out of this, to stop the panic, the pain—but you’ve already crossed that motivation off the list. Money isn’t what they’re after.

“Please,” you gasp out again. “I can’t— I c-can’t—”

Daichi’s smile twists; mercy isn’t in his repertoire, not like it used to be. “Do you know what I thought, the first night I spent in prison? _I can’t take this_. Every morning, every night, for _weeks_ : _I can’t take this_. Can’t do it. Can’t survive it. Sixteen years, I thought that was a long time; I’d be over thirty when I got out. And I thought, _I’m going to be dead before it’s over_.” He bites his lip, brows furrowing. “Wasn’t even a year in before I was thinking of suicide. Have you ever felt that way, Harold? Ever felt like your life had gotten so bad that you can’t see any way out but down? Even been so scared of what comes next that you’d rather take the option of _nothing at all?_ ”

This close, you can see that the brightness of his eyes isn’t pleasure; it’s something a little more manic than that. And his lips are trembling, ever so slightly. “But I’m here,” he breathes. “Despite all of that, I’m alive. So, no. You _can_ take it. Because you don’t have a choice.”

Ken’s moved over to lean against the wall, near one of the fans. When Daichi stops speaking, Ken turns the fan up to high.

“We’ve been watching you for a while now,” Ken adds, returning. “Getting buddy-buddy with the cops, that’s interesting. Guess you’ve come a long way. Can’t be a criminal forever, right? Except no one seems to _know_ that you’re a criminal. Because you never got caught… until now. Must be nice to have people think so well of you.” He strides over and turns up the other fan as well.

You’re starting to lose track of what they’re saying, though, caught up in muscle spasms and the jerky breaths that you can’t control anymore.

“Would’ve been nice if we had had the same chance,” Daichi says over the roar. “But, y’know, mistakes were made. Can’t take it back.” Grinning down at you, he taps your cheek. “And, I figure, since you got the time and freedom that we didn’t get to enjoy, well, maybe we could take away _your_ life, the way you took away ours. Not death. Just the kind of life where death might seem a preferable alternative.”

You’re shaking now, body temperature plummeting, but your attention is entirely on your hands and feet, the searing pain of your tissues freezing, burning, dying. And it only gets worse as Ken starts filling up the buckets with super-chilled vodka, the smell of it strong enough to set you gagging. It’s colder than water could ever get and still be liquid, and it’s drawing the heat out of your hands faster than your body can compensate.

“Not gonna run away from this one,” Ken says as you writhe in the chair, trying to curl up against the ropes, unable to free a single limb.

And your feet are almost too numb to feel….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Harold. This is the torture chapter.
> 
> His hands and feet are stuck in ice (and worse), which is quite painful. He's also forced to drink vodka (three shots or so), and thinks he might throw up.
> 
> There's a flashback to a character who lived in a war-torn area, but not much specific about it.
> 
> Mention is made of the characters being in prison, and how that led to thoughts of suicide. (As future chapters show, it actually led to multiple suicide attempts, but that's not mentioned here.)


	5. Cavalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescue has arrived! But are they too late to avert serious damage? And what additional surprises might be in store?

“In two minutes I am going in—with or without you.”

“Think you can get him out intact when there’s two of them and one of you? You even know if they have weapons?”

She doesn’t respond, but you can just _hear_ her eyes rolling.

“Look, I got your back, all right? But you gotta let me _get_ there.” You honestly don’t know whether this is a lost cause or not, but maybe just keeping her talking—

“No windows on the garage.”

“Not surprising,” you respond, as your phone—in the cup holder—archly directs you to turn right at the next street, the next step in getting to Shaw.

“No cameras that I can see. Lights on in the basement… windows blacked out.” She’s still scoping the place out; that’s good, that means she’s not yet heading inside. Gives you a little more time to get there.

Reese is gonna kill you if anything goes wrong.

You turn the corner, and your headlights play across the brick walls and picket fences. “Just turned onto Treadwell. I’m close. Don’t go in without me, okay?” You don’t dare check your phone to see how close you are to the right house.

Shaw is silent now, and you can’t make out much of anything over the earpiece. Maybe some sort of scratchy sounds?

“I’m going in. Back door.”

“Will you cool your jets a minute? I’m almost—”

“We don’t know what they’re doing to him in there.” She pauses, takes a breath. “I’m going in slow, Lionel, but I’m going on in.”

 _Shit_.

* * * * *

The kitchen’s dark, but there’s light leaking in from a door on the far side, against the outside wall. Quietly, you close the door behind you, not all the way but enough to stay closed, and pause to let your ears tell you things. A noticeable hum from the basement, and… nothing else. No movement, no breaths, nothing you can pick up on. If there’s anyone else in the house, they’re just as silent as you are.

That door ahead almost certainly leads to Finch. And you’re about to go in blind. But you’ve got backup just a minute or two away, so you’re not exactly going in alone.

But Finch is in there, somewhere, and, right now, you’re the only one who’s here to get him out.

Fusco’s still fussing in your ear a bit. “Lionel,” you murmur, “can you shut up for maybe two minutes here?”

Thankfully, he does—you need all your senses for this one. You brace yourself for a squeaky door, but whatever sound it makes gets swallowed up in the sound of fans and A/C going full blast down below. Your steps are soundless as you descend along concrete steps, gun pulled in by your side so they don’t see the barrel before you can point it at them.

You see Finch first—the back of his suit, and then his stupid haircut—and feel a wave of something peculiar. Not exactly relief, though that’s in there… the awareness that your guess was right and that he’s that much closer to being rescued, to being safe. But he’s still in danger, and the danger’s been confirmed, because Finch is shivering violently in that chair, positively quaking, his breath along with his body. He’s acting far colder than the air in this room. From what you can see, his suit’s been ripped apart, and his hands are tied down into… are those ice buckets?

And then, barely audible over the roar of the A/C, barely legible as human words, he slurs out, “P-p-please—god—don’t d-do this. _Please_.”

There’s nothing left to hide behind, and you don’t much feel like hiding anyway; you take the next steps in a rush, gun out and ready for a challenge. “NYPD! Nobody move!”

“ _Before I even get there?_ ” Fusco gripes in your ear, but you ignore him, all your attention on the two startled men on the far side of the room. A quick rundown cements them in your mind as likely brothers (matching what Fusco told you earlier), close in age to Finch, one thinner and energetic (and scared), who’s already got his hands up; the other (glowering at you) more muscle and inertia. Fusco was right about East Asians, even if he didn’t have the best terminology. You’ve learned to classify in broad strokes, and your missions were more focused on Middle-East terrorism, but the name he gave you earlier sounds… not Chinese. _Okamoto_. Japanese, maybe?

Finch groans shakily, and you let your peripheral vision take in details while you’re still focused on the threat at hand. Yeah, those are buckets of ice floating in…

That’s not water.

The stench of alcohol (you’d picked it up on the stairs, it’s just that you had other matters to focus on at the time) says vodka, and lots of it. And suddenly you wish that Fusco could get here a lot faster.

Your assessment takes place in seconds, but it’s not a simple one.

There’s two things to focus on here. The medic in you is screaming that you need to stop the damage being done. That parts of Finch’s extremities might well be in the process of actually freezing, irreversible damage—your brain’s feeding you images of frostbitten skin, black and in need of amputation. Of famous mountain climbers who lost half their fingers, or a guy who walked home through the snow in wet boots and was never able to walk normally again.

The first step, the most important step, is to get rid of the force that’s doing damage, to pull Finch’s hands out of that ice and make sure that the freezing part is over. Immediate first aid, that can wait the couple of minutes it takes to secure these guys, but every second that ticks by is more time for Finch to undergo permanent damage.

But the agent in you, the operative, the one trained to kill instead of heal, to use lethal force to deal with threats to national security, that’s the one in charge right now, because the medic’s gonna get you both _killed_. The danger in front of you takes precedence over everything else.

You still don’t know much about these two men, what their ultimate goal was or whether they were planning to kill him; you don’t know whether there’s a third party involved, or what they’ll try to do now that they’ve been cornered. They’re ruthless, you know that much; they were willing to abduct a man with obvious disabilities and use a tactic designed to make him even _more_ disabled. Maybe this was an attempt to get him to talk, but it’s cruel and it’s premeditated, and you can’t take your eyes off them long enough to deal with Finch. Not until Fusco gets here.

A quick scan of the room reveals nothing that could neutralize the threat, short of shooting them, which you know that Finch doesn’t want. Doesn’t _ever_ want. But it may be your best option; you don’t know how cold that mixture is, but Finch’s uncontrollable shivering says he’s well into hypothermia, which might be a greater threat than the frostbite, right now. You need to resolve this situation and get Finch’s core body temperature raised before he _stops_ shivering.

The fact that Finch is tied with rope suggests there’s more of it around here, but not in visual range. Possibly behind you, but you’re not stupid enough to take your eyes off the threat right now; you don’t even know if they have weapons. Trying to cut Finch loose one-handed while not looking at what you’re doing means a high chance of cutting him by accident—and he might not even feel it.

Wait. Simple goals. The immediate goal isn’t to free him—it’s to get his hands out of the cold. And that one’s a little easier to manage.

With quick steps you come up right behind him, gun not wavering even a little as you keep your gaze on the kidnappers. “Brace yourself, Harold,” you say, grabbing the back of his chair with one hand. (Your hand brushes across an ice pack on his neck, but you ignore it; it seems to be secured somehow, and you can’t spare the time or attention to figure out how to remove it.)

In one swift but controlled move, you pull him backwards, grateful that the chair doesn’t slip across the floor; it takes a bit to hit the tipping point, but then you’re lowering the chair to the ground, eyes still on the targets as the vodka sloshes all around your feet, ice cubes scattering everywhere.

Finch moans again, his breath coming in little trembling pants. You notice—again with peripheral vision—that his feet are bare, and the wrinkly skin is a deep, angry purple.

 _Bastards_.

But he’s out, now, out of continuing damage, and that’s Fusco’s voice in your ear. “Yeah,” you confirm. “Come and join the party; we’ve got guests.”

You consider telling him to grab heat packs, but the delay’s not worth it, especially since you’re in a house with (presumably) access to running water, which’ll get the job done faster and with less chance of a burn.

“All right, you two,” you address the kidnappers, gun still aimed in their direction. “Which one’s Ken?”

Startlement on both faces, and the little one’s eyes dart toward his brother; that’s answer enough.

“Okay, _Ken_ , go unplug that fan for me. Nothing else.” You gesture with your free hand, gun not wavering. Got plenty of visual range on the two of them, so a little separation ain’t gonna hurt.

Scowling, Ken just stands there, hands balled into fists at his sides. He’s not moving.

“Ken, _please_ ,” the other one says. “Let’s just—I want this to be over with.”

After a moment, Ken swallows, and deflates a little. He stalks over to the wall, yanks the cord out.

So the younger one’s got some emotional hold over the older one; that might be useful.

“Daichi,” you say, switching focus, “get the other one.” He doesn’t resist; it seems like he knows that the game is finally up. But it’s more than just _resigned_ … there’s an emotion there that you’re not picking up on, like the nuance of a second language. Sad? Worried? You can’t make it out.

“Now, back against the wall, both of you. Daichi, kill the A/C.”

As they do, Finch murmurs something, a barely audible mumble, hard to make out through his shivers. “D-don’t… don’t…”

“Shh,” you say, kneeling by him. You feel around his neck and find the duct tape, pull it loose quickly because a little pain is less important than the cold right now, and work the ice pack loose, chuck it away. Then you press two fingers against the cold skin, hoping your count is reasonable enough since you’re unable to look at a watch.

Pulse is slow, so he’s into second-stage hypothermia, but it’s not irregular; that’s good. Means he’s probably gonna be okay. If you can get him warmed up soon. If he doesn’t have any heart problems before then. If he’s not on any medications that could cause additional side effects…

When you get home, you are gonna get him to give you a full list of every medication he takes, and make him promise to keep you up to date on any new ones. You’ve been part of this team for long enough to be trusted, inasmuch as Finch trusts _anyone_ , and you are the goddamn _medic_. You should know this.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Finch tries again.

“Just taking your pulse,” you assure him. “You’re going to be fine, Harold. Gonna get you out of here as soon as I can.”

“D-don’t _hurt_ them,” Finch manages, finally. Typical Finch, valuing even the lives of the bad guys. But he continues: “Don’t—it’s m-my fault, it’s all my f-f-fault.”

_What the hell?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts of frostbite and amputation. Effects of both, as well.


	6. Rescue (Harold POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw and Fusco have rescued Harold -- but Harold wants to rescue his captors as well.

By now, you’ve completely lost track of time, too focused on the sensations of your body as it tries to stave off death. The shivering has gotten worse, but you’ve gone past the fire, your feet and hands both numb now, dead weight. A relief, of sorts, though your back keeps sending shooting pains up the spine, a reminder of your futile efforts to get free. You’re not panting anymore; your breaths have slowed down, little jerks of your lungs, as if your body is starting to forget that you need oxygen, or is fighting not to fall asleep.

Watching you, Ken and Daichi are silent, sober, no longer taking delight in the fruition of their plans. But they’re not releasing you, either. The cold must be getting to them: Dai’s shaking a little, and he pushes into Ken’s side; Ken wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close.

You didn’t pay attention to it before, but neither one of them is dressed for the cold. When they confronted you on the street, they had nice coats on, but now they’re in paper-thin tank tops and shorts that look completely out of place for the season. Given their preparations, this is clearly deliberate: They’re exposing themselves to the same cold air that you’re being subjected to. Not the rest of it, but at least the air.

Maybe under normal circumstances, you could have worked it out, at least some possibilities, why they might choose not to protect themselves from their chosen form of torture. But you’re starting to feel like passing out, and it’s so hard to think. You can’t imagine what’s going on in their heads.

 

There were… things that you’ve always wanted to say to them. Make apologies for the stupidity and cowardice of a teenage you. Explain that you never forgot them, that you wanted to help them, but couldn’t find a way to do so while they were behind bars. Point out that once they got free, you did your best to make their lives easier—but that would seem like bragging, and it’s far too little, too late.

But Iffaa isn’t the only one you’ve kept an eye on.

Once the internet made it possible to pull in data without risking your anonymity, you started keeping tabs on the Okamotos as they served their time. Watched as Ken kicked a sentence of twenty-three years up to nearly thirty with a string of altercations. Watched, more concerned, as Daichi’s sentence elongated; he’d gotten off easy in the sentencing, because he was younger and the court (not realizing that he was the motivating force behind the scam) was more lenient on him, but various counts of bad behavior added on a dozen years so that, in the end, they got out within two months of each other.

For the past four years, you’ve watched them move around the country, trying to reclaim some kind of life, with their felony records blocking them at every turn. Out of a sense of obligation, you’ve tried to make it easier on them: cleared away a few unnecessary hurdles, doctored their targeted advertising to point them at felon-friendly housing and job opportunities, even arranged for unexpected windfalls (including a spoof contest that “won” them a Jaguar—Ken always _did_ like fancy cars).

They were able to buy a house on Staten Island because of the money you shifted into their hands, without them ever knowing where it came from. You didn’t think much of it at the time; they’d been enamored of the Big Apple before, and the move didn’t seem out of place. Now, of course, it seems obvious that they somehow managed to track you down—even though you’ve taken pains to erase any paper trail tying you to Harold Hornbill, and it’s practically impossible to imagine them identifying you by sight—so that explains the move and the unobtrusive little car.

You’d wondered about the car. You should have built a tracker into your phone, like with Grace, but you’d had other things on your mind at the time.

That inattention is going to cost you.

 

Your head is starting to nod, and it’s hard to keep your eyes open. You’re feeling… a little warm, surprisingly, and muzzy, like the aftereffect of good mulled wine. It can’t be just the vodka; that isn’t—it’s not—

Why is it… it’s so hard to put thoughts together. It’s… there’s a danger here, but you…

 _Hypothermia_.

When Reese first joined you, when you realized that he had practically no sense of self-preservation, you started taking that into account in your preparations. The first aid classes you attend are the most comprehensive you can find, and you supplement them with online training and video tutorials in the quiet hours between cases. Since you can’t rely on paramedics or hospital trips, it’s up to you to be the first line of defense, a way to reduce the level of lasting damage.

With Shaw on the team, that’s less of a concern now, but you’re still the backup, and able to handle many ailments before she can get back to base.

You’ve been hurt a few times yourself, but that’s been a few scrapes and cuts and a burn or two. This is the first time you can recall having to hunt through your medical knowledge to deal with a more serious condition. Of all the times you’ve pictured eventualities—because anticipation is the first step in being prepared—it’s always been someone else. Reese getting knocked into a wintery river, or being shot up and thrown into a snowbank (potentially better than without the snow, as the cold could make him bleed less). Shaw refusing to wear gloves and getting too busy to realize that the wind chill was harming her skin.

But you’ve memorized the charts. The violent shivering, that’s Stage 2. One step closer to irreversible damage. Numbness means… there’s a word for it, _vaso_ … _something_ , the veins tightened, closed off. Keeping heat near the core, even if it means sacrificing fingers and toes, or worse.

You don’t want to think about losing your fingers. It’s a terror almost as bad as losing your mind.

What could you possibly say that could stop this? They don’t care about money, or information, so there’s nothing you can use to negotiate. Threaten them? These men have lived through thirty years in Lucasville, survived an eleven-day riot that killed nearly a dozen men. Everything you can think to say would be laughable in the face of that.

And how plausible is it, really, to claim that you’ve got a partner who would raze a city to find you, or an all-seeing surveillance system that can track them down wherever they try to hide? Ken always despised the types of villains who couldn’t accept their fate with dignity, who’d say anything, try any trick just to escape. That’s what it would sound like, bringing up Reese right now.

When Reese gets here, he’s going to kill them. You don’t even know that you could stop him.

They don’t deserve to die. For all the fear and pain you’ve gone through tonight, you can’t wish that on them. They would never have gotten to this point if not for you. They were forced to adapt… to become cruel. Who knows what they might have done with their lives if not for that one mistake? A mistake with a noble purpose, too, however misguided the reasoning might have been.

They’re just like Reese. Reese got forced into the military after some bad decisions as a teen, but he quickly adjusted to being in the service, and tried to do something noble with his work. And then he got twisted; that wasn’t his choice. Given the chance, he became everything you could have hoped from him, and more; you can’t blame him for what he was back when he met you.

And you can’t blame these two, either. As a teen, you knew them at the level of a shallow friendship, shared pizza and video games, bad movies and idle daydreams; you never even told them your real name. But the history between you has grown while you’ve been apart. It’s impossible to watch so carefully over someone’s life without coming, in some way, to care what happens to them. You want them to live on, and to have _good_ lives—to prosper, now that they’re finally free.

Except… they’re not free. They’re stuck on revenge, stuck in the past, in regret over wasted time. Your heart goes out to them; you want them to have… more. You want them to get past their hang-ups, to find a new focus in a future worth having. To actually _live_.

That’s the thought that loosens your tongue again. If you can’t get them to stop, then they are going to _die_. Somehow, you need to convince them to stand down.

At this point, there’s nothing you can do but beg. “P-p-please,” you stammer out, voice slurry and articulation all but absent. “God… don’t d-do this. _Please_.”

They stand there, unmoved and unmoving, Daichi still pressed tight against his brother’s side. Except… where Ken looks like he’s never had a second thought in his life, Daichi looks… stricken. Is that your blurry vision, or are there tears rolling down his face?

“ _NYPD! Nobody move!_ ”

For one horrifying moment, you think that it’s Reese behind you, that he’s about to storm down the stairs and shoot them both in the head, the way he would surely have dealt with Root if their first confrontation hadn’t been in such a public place. You open your mouth to call out to him, to avert this evil: _Don’t hurt them. Don’t hurt them._

But then your brain catches up to the data and registers a woman’s voice: Shaw. Relief floods through you slowly, like every other sensation, slow and sluggish. But she’s pretending to be a cop, which means—probably—that she’s not going to start shooting unless these guys prove to be a greater threat.

Ken and Dai have separated, Dai’s hands up while Ken’s are squeezed into fists at his sides. Dai is shaking, and his face is screwed up with some mix of emotions you can’t parse right now… but he’s surrendering.

If Shaw is here, where’s Fusco? Is he nearby? Is he even all right? Did she drop him off at the hospital before tracking you down?

How long has it even been? The windows are blacked out, so you can’t even tell if it’s night or day. A moment ago, it felt like an eternity, but…

You stiffen suddenly at a lance of pain up your back, and let out a shaky groan that you didn’t mean to voice. That’s one mercy that you give your teammates, daily: They almost never know just how badly you’re hurting. If you can’t stop the pain, at least you can keep it from spreading, from making them feel bad about conditions they can’t remedy.

Most of the pain is gone now, anyway. It’s just your lower back, and your neck, two spots of chronic pain that you should have mastered by now. There’s no need to distract Shaw with—

“Brace yourself, Harold,” comes her voice by your ear, and her hand grabs the chair, making you stiffen again when she accidentally presses the ice pack further into your neck. And then, in a sudden rush of terror, you’re tilting backward, tipping over, and only Shaw’s careful strength keeps you from actually falling. Your feet lift out of the basin, out of the vodka bath and into the air. The ice buckets tilt, but catch against something, as though they’re tied in place, and then the ice is spilling out across the floor and the frigid vodka’s running up the underside of your arms.

All of that, you felt as changes of pressure in your wrists and ankles… but not in your feet or hands. They’re beyond numb; they’re completely devoid of sensation, as though they’re no longer actually there.

Between the adrenaline rush and the chill of the vodka soaking into your shirt, you’re shaking even worse, taking in little trembling breaths as though your lungs have seized up too much to suck in air. You can’t help letting out another moan as your calf spasms a bit before going still.

“Join the party,” Shaw says. “We’ve got guests.” And you have to wonder if you’re hallucinating, because those words don’t make sense to you. Only maybe she’s calling in Reese? You want to protest, but it’s too hard to make your mouth form words right now.

“All right, you two. Which one’s Ken?”

It startles you; how did she find out their names? Was she listening in? But you dropped your phone when they grabbed you. Reese has planted trackers before, but did he go so far as to hide a bug? Or did Shaw hide one? Where? You don’t have your glasses, and there’s nothing else that’s the same in every outfit…

“Okay, _Ken_ , go unplug that fan for me. Nothing else.”

There’s a pause, and then Daichi says, like he’s too tired to even cry, “Ken, _please_. Let’s just—I want this to be over with.”

It’s such a contrast to his attitude while setting this up that, at first, you have to consider whether he’s putting on an act—getting Shaw to let down her guard, maybe. Or, thinking that they’re about to go back to prison, trying to act reasonable enough to get lower sentences. But you never had to dig to figure out Daichi’s emotions; they were always front and center, whether he wanted them to be or not. So that doesn’t seem to be what’s going on.

It’s resignation of some sort. Regret? For what they just did to you? What they _almost_ did? Your head’s too muddled to piece it together.

“Daichi… other one. Now.” The rushing, pounding sound in your ears is getting worse, blocking out sound. This position—tied into a chair tipped over, blood rushing to your head while the ropes dig into your arms—is a far cry from comfortable, but it’s another thing you have to bear for a while; your friends are neither callous nor oblivious, so they’ll help you as soon as they can. Once they deal with the Okamotos, get rid of the threat. At least they’ve calmed things down without needing to shoot anyone; you doubt that Reese could’ve been that restrained.

Shaw says something else, but the words are too hard to make out. And then again— _die, kill, see_ —and suddenly you’re not so sure that she’s going to be more lenient than Reese would be.

“D-don’t,” you croak out. “Don’t—”

“Shhh,” she says. There’s no comfort in her voice, but then, there never is from Shaw; it’s neither a measure of her concern nor of her competence in helping people. Her fingers find your neck, then hesitate and feel around the ice pack until suddenly she’s ripping off the duct tape, pulling another gasp from you. A little bit of jostling makes your neck scream, but then the ice pack is tugged loose and her fingers are checking your pulse.

“ _Don’t_ —” you try again.

She says something about taking your pulse, getting you out of here, but that’s not what you’re concerned with right now. Of course your team will help you; that was never in question. It’s what they might do to your _first_ team that’s worrying you.

Gathering yourself, you manage to push words out through stiff and shaking lips, a sluggish tongue; they’re quite possibly the least articulate you’ve ever been when you weren’t exceedingly drunk. “D-don’t _hurt_ them.” Is that enough? Does she understand? “Don’t— it’s m-my fault, it’s all my f-f-fault.”

The effort of just that much exhausts you, makes you want to cough, though you don’t have the strength for it anymore. Everything around you is spinning; closing your eyes makes it worse, so you stare upwards, unfocused, trying to shake it off.

The footfalls on the stairs again make you think of Reese, before you recognize the heavyset gait of Detective Fusco, just before he comes into view, towering above you and doing little to alleviate the dizziness. He looks down at you, eyes widening in horror, before he descends a little further and glances across the room, leveling his gun with a frown.

Fusco’s not the type to shoot anyone without good cause; his gun doesn’t worry you like it does with the type of agents who don’t have to explicitly justify each bullet with paperwork in triplicate. So Shaw’s next words, firm enough to make it through the fuzz—“Either of them move, shoot ’em”—don’t alarm you, so much as make you want to chuckle at the bravado. Typical Shaw.

When she kneels by you, you tense up in anticipation of being moved—but no, she’s just working her way through the knots. It’s still painful, the change in pressure and support as your body slowly comes free, but it’s the kind of discomfort that grounds you, drives back the dizziness just a little. Just _enough_.

Fusco glances your way and bites off a gasp, his eyes wide, before he pulls his focus back to the Okamotos. His gun doesn’t waver. He looks angry.

Shaw gets the ice packs off your numb ankles, and starts to work one off your wrist; the pressure is enough to make you moan, grimacing despite yourself.

… _okay?_ Fusco asks, not looking down this time.

Pulling off the last ice pack, Shaw replies, but you only make out the word _bite_. She pulls loose the rope she’s gotten off you, most of it, and gathers it up, loosely coiled, and says something else at Fusco, who lets her nab the handcuffs from his belt before she’s out of your field of view again.

It’s strange how easy it is for her to convince the Okamotos to give up. Or maybe they’d already decided that— _the jig is up, let’s not make it any harder on ourselves_ —so it didn’t even matter what Shaw did. But soon enough Shaw’s back, tucking something into the back of her pants before she crouches at your side, motioning to Fusco to join her.

“No weight on his feet,” Shaw says, all business medic now. Something about _bad_ , about _damage_. You try not to think about those words applying to you.

Fusco asks about an ambulance, and you don’t even have to shoot him down; Shaw does it for you, though you can’t make out specifically what she says. Then _upstairs_ , and you don’t realize quite what she means until they’re grabbing you by the knees and looping arms around your chest, under your armpits.

Just being lifted brings on another wave of dizziness, and you want to protest this kind of treatment—it’s been years since you let yourself get touched this closely by another human being, someone not trying to capture you—but you can feel Fusco’s warmth through your shirt, and that’s an odd sort of comfort to balance out all the pain. And you realize that it wouldn’t matter anyway; there’s no way you can walk at this point.

Because you’re still shaking, and your hands—not your fingers, just your hands—are starting to burn again, and yet your feet are as numb as they were in the ice bath. Dead weight.

As they heft you upstairs, you try not to wonder if you’re ever going to walk again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Physical damage of frostbite. Emotional disturbance.


	7. Teamwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fusco finally arrives, and they neutralize the kidnappers -- now it's time for some serious first aid.

Through the earpiece, you hear just enough to make out that Shaw’s in the house now. Kinda surprising that she managed to get inside without breaking down the door. Then you recall that even Finch is capable of picking locks by now, and you also remember that you’re working with a team of criminals.

Benevolent criminals, but still.

… _Mostly_ benevolent.

The GPS says 50 feet, destination on the left—and then there’s a humming, kinda buzzing sound coming through the earpiece, and, seconds later, you’re hearing what sounds like maybe Finch, only you can’t make out the words. Then Shaw’s shouting “ _NYPD! Nobody move!_ ”

“Before I even get there?” you gripe, but secretly you’re glad that she’s there to stop whatever’s happening to Finch. The fact that there aren’t gunshots is a good sign; whatever’s happening isn’t lethal. Maybe they just sat him down for a talk. Maybe they’ve got him tied up for ransom. Maybe they didn’t hurt him at all.

Finch’s pained groan in your ear says otherwise. A chill runs through you as you wonder what he’s been through in the half-hour it’s taken you to run him down.

 

When Reese first pulled you into this little group, it wasn’t like you were exactly willing. But it wasn’t like you deserved better, either. You didn’t realize it at the time, but Finch wasn’t ready to cut you the same slack that Reese did. Hell, Reese once took a beating after you betrayed him to the Toreros Cartel, and all he did was give you a promotion and tell you not to do it again. Once you worked out Reese’s history a bit, the guy’s forbearance fed your nightmares for _weeks_ , all the many ways he could’ve dealt with the situation with less mercy and more creativity.

You still recall Finch’s outraged accusations in your ear— _and I was just starting to believe that we could trust you, Detective; I’m disappointed_ —the day he thought that you’d betrayed them to Elias. He wasn’t inclined to show mercy, not that day. But, given what he thought, you can’t blame him. And he did apologize, as soon as he knew better… and never jumped to those conclusions about you again, at least not in any way you ever heard about.

So it was a bit of a rocky start. But it’s been a good road. A good, solid path out of the mire, got you back to doing the sort of work a policeman _ought_ to be doing. And while Reese got you started and has kept you under his wing, while Carter made sure to point you in the right direction (and you have Reese to thank for hooking you up with her in the first place… and for convincing her to dial back her heroes-and-villains worldview enough to let her see more in you than just the corruption), you know that you owe a lot of that progress to Finch. Because Reese didn’t get there on his own any more than _you_ did, and this year’s model is a far cry from the Reese who gave you four high-powered bruises through a bulletproof vest on the day you met.

You deserved worse. But still. Point is, Reese has gotten better, and that’s all thanks to Finch, and the work that Finch has set up for him.

It’s weird, you know? Glasses ain’t that much older than you are, and yet he feels a bit like some eccentric uncle, rich enough to know that money makes a lousy gift, wise enough to hand down good advice that his nephews occasionally follow. Dealing with a body that’s giving out on him, which makes you a little more protective of his welfare. Trying to do good in a way that few appreciate… only, where eccentric uncles might donate to charity, Finch is right there in the trenches trying to help the people that charity would be too late to reach.

It’s a strange little family that you’ve got yourself caught up in.

 

“Brace yourself, Harold,” Shaw says in your ear—and what flashes through your mind is images of him hanging from a ceiling somewhere, or trapped in some cage or machine that Shaw’s about to break open. But the sound doesn’t mesh with either of those. It’s a sloshing sort of sound, and Finch moaning again as something—a slow-motion crash?—happens in the background.

But the GPS says you’ve arrived. In time to help, you hope. In time to keep both of them safe.

“Hell, that’s the Jag, isn’t it?” you blurt out, as your headlights briefly illuminate it.

Shaw confirms the idea. “Come and join the party,” she adds. “We’ve got guests.”

You almost park illegally before you recall that you’re not in a cop car, and instead pull into an empty spot on the opposite side of the street. Through the earpiece, you hear Shaw talking to the kidnappers. One of the two says something—“Ken, _please_ ”—but you can’t make out the rest of it.

She’s getting them to unplug the fans, turn off the A/C. It’s not exactly summer anymore; why would they be trying to keep it that cold down there? They hiding bodies or something?

No, if they were hiding bodies, Shaw wouldn’t be stupid enough to turn off the refrigeration. Let the Medical Examiner get here before they’re warm enough to start any decomposition. You’ve know what it’s like to handle bodies that have sat around for a few days; it ain’t pretty.

Shaw probably knows a fair thing about bodies, too.

As you move toward the house, Finch is murmuring something else. “Just taking your pulse,” Shaw says, voice as deadpan as ever. For a moment, you consider trying to talk her into acting lessons, just so she can be a little more comforting when she needs to be.

“You’re going to be fine,” she continues. “Get you out of here as soon as I can.”

Trying not to imagine the kind of circumstances that Finch could be in—and glad you don’t watch the kind of horror movies that could stock your brain with handy scenarios; you get enough of them in real life—you move toward the house, gun in hand. _Back door_ , she said; you head around and find the door cracked open just a bit.

On the other side of the kitchen, an open door to the basement. Invitation accepted.

 

You descend into a miasma of vodka fumes, thoroughly glad that you don’t smoke. Finch is there on the floor, tense and shivering, tied to a chair, lying in a giant puddle of ice and… probably not water, given the smell. Shaw’s behind him, gaze and gun pointed at the far side of the room.

A few more steps and you can see them, the guy who grabbed Finch and the one who took you down; they’re up against the back wall, one simmering with angry energy, the other looser, calmer, resigned.

Shaw doesn’t move until you’re there beside her, until she evidently spots your gun in her peripheral vision and relaxes minutely, just enough for you to notice. “Either of them move, shoot ’em,” she says, and gets to work freeing Finch from the chair.

While she’s working on that task, you take quick stock of the room. It’s only the two of them, with no other weapons that you can see… unless one of them whips out a _match_. Even the scent in here is making you a bit dizzy.

You glance down at Finch and your eyes go wide: Feet that purple don’t belong on a person who’s still alive. What the hell have they been doing to him? But that’s Shaw’s lookout—she’s the medic—so you snap your gaze back to the kidnappers, keeping your gun right where it needs to be. Giving Shaw the freedom to do her thing.

When Finch moans, though, you can’t help but ask, “He gonna be okay?”

“Too soon to tell,” Shaw says. “Frostbite’s a bitch.”

Then she stands up, coils of rope in her hand. “Got your handcuffs?”

“On my belt.”

She goes around behind you and retrieves them, then hands over her gun and heads forward, careful to stay out of your line of sight. And the expression on her face is absolutely blank.

Which, as you’ve come to know from dealing with Reese, is pretty much secret agent code for _murderous_.

* * * * *

Fusco’s footsteps clumping down the stairs (along with the extra white noise in your ear, a confirmation that he’s in the right basement) are music to your ears, but you don’t take your gaze off the kidnappers until you’re picking up that familiar scent of dollar-store aftershave and, mingled with the sweat, the remains of a typical New York City hot dog, little bit of everything.

You don't waver until his gun is right there in your peripheral vision.

“Either of them move, shoot ’em,” you say, and turn your attention to Finch, trusting Fusco to keep the kidnappers at bay.

Crouching by the chair, you make quick work of the knots that aren’t soaked through. Fusco bites back a gasp; you hope he’s keeping his attention where it needs to be right now, because you still don’t know what these guys wanted. Not that you care about their goals directly, but it might change how they react to having their prey taken from them. Are they going to let him go without a fight? It’s too soon to tell.

As you work the ice pack off Finch’s wrist, he moans, face scrunching up in pain.

“He gonna be okay?” Fusco asks.

“Too soon to tell.” Depends on how cold he got, how much damage got through to the lower layers of skin, depends (again) on medication, anything that could make the effects worse, or if he has a heart condition that could be triggered by the temperature change….

“Frostbite’s a bitch,” you sum up, as you get the last ice pack off of him and gather up the rope that isn’t trapped under the chair. One thing left to do before you can move him; you get to your feet. “Got your handcuffs?”

“On my belt.”

Fusco doesn’t look your way as you duck around behind him and grab the cuffs. Briefly, you consider having a gun in your hand, but it’s too easy for one of them to grab it from you, and there’s no telling where a stray shot might go if they did. You hand your gun to Fusco.

Careful not to block his shot, you head in. “Hands behind your back,” you say as you approach the bruiser—Ken. Scowling, he obliges, and turns so you’ve got easy access.

As you cuff him, you recall that you entered the room under the conceit of being a cop. All right, then. “You have the right to remain silent,” you say, pretty sure that this is the sort of thing that shows up on TV and not so much in real life. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

When you pause, trying to recall the next step, Fusco picks it up, pulling a little card from his pocket. “You have the right to an attorney.” You tune him out, paying attention to body language. Bruiser’s not happy, but he’s not gonna rush an armed cop across a wet floor with his hands cuffed behind his back. Daichi’s harder to read, but at least he’s resigned to his fate. Which isn’t to say that he won’t get his fight back unexpectedly—you’re not about to let down your guard—but it seems like the situation is mostly resolved. At least as far as the kidnappers.

Before Fusco’s done reciting, you’ve got Daichi’s hands tied behind his back, a rope looped around his waist to make it harder to get loose. There’s no chairs in the room besides the one Finch is on, so you pull the two back to back and tie their arms together with the rest of the rope.

That’ll have to do. Finch is still shivering, and you can’t imagine these two even managing the basement steps, much less getting the door open, when they’re like this.

…Thinking twice about that assumption, you lift Finch’s chair a little, tug loose another rope, and go tie their left feet to each other. Ken grumbles, but they don’t resist. Standing in the same place—for however long it takes you to deal with Finch and get back to deal with these two—isn’t likely to be pleasant, especially in this chilly air in _those_ clothes, but you’re kinda glad that they can get a taste of discomfort, after what they did to Finch.

Retrieving your gun from Fusco, you tuck it into the back of your pants and crouch by Finch, jerking your head at Fusco to join in. “No weight on his feet. If the frostbite’s bad, we don’t want to damage them further.”

“We need an ambulance?”

“They’re just gonna do what I can do here: warm him up. Assuming we’ve got heat sources and running water. Let’s get him upstairs. _Carefully_.”

It takes a bit of maneuvering to get Finch up between the two of you, even though he’s surprisingly light; the wet clothes aren’t helping, but you’re at least going to do him the dignity of not disrobing him in sight of his captors. With Fusco taking him under the armpits and you grabbing his knees—he moans again, more pain this time, his breaths coming faster although he’s too out of it to really resist—you slowly work him up the stairs and into the kitchen, pausing to flick on the lights. From here, you can see a hallway, and a narrow stairwell to the side, and the living room, which contains one of those L-shaped couches and a couple of chairs.

The curtains are closed, and the couch looks warm enough for now. You direct Fusco to help you set Finch down on the carpet closest to the kitchen, because the first step is going to be getting rid of those clothes, and you don’t care to get vodka all over your workspace.

“You want me to find a bathtub?” Fusco asks, rubbing one of Finch’s hands with both of his. “We gotta warm him up fast, right?”

“If you want to give him a heart attack,” you counter. “And stop that, you’re gonna make it worse.”

Eyes wide, he sets Finch’s hand down like he just burned himself holding a hot plate but doesn’t want to break it by just letting go. You don’t bother to explain why rubbing frostbitten skin is a bad idea; gotta focus on other tasks right now.

“First thing’s a blanket—fast. Anything that looks warm.”

While Fusco runs off, you turn back to your patient. “Finch,” you say, sharply. “You with me?”

At first, he doesn’t respond. His eyes are closed; he’s still shaking, breaths shallow—stage two, that’s good, his body’s still trying to warm itself up. That means you should be able to handle this without additional medical equipment, if you take it slow and stay aware of his symptoms.

Also means that Reese isn’t going to kill you for letting him get hurt. Unless the frostbite’s worse than it looks, but you can’t determine that right now.

With a normal patient, you’d be more concerned that he’s this out of it, but he’s probably dealing with a lot of pain right now. As you expected, the ride in the trunk bruised him up quite a bit, and almost certainly exacerbated his neck and back injuries; the frostbite’s gonna start hurting him as it thaws (at least, you hope it will; that’s a far better scenario than the alternative), and it’s possible they did other things to cause him pain before you got here. More than likely he’s retreated from the experience a little, using pain-management tricks or just mentally checking out for a while.

Which makes some of this easier.

You don’t bother with salvage; Finch won’t be wearing this suit a second time. But when you slide the blade in between the fabric and the skin, Finch immediately stiffens up, breaths coming faster, panicked, like a sudden rush of adrenaline.

That’s not good. And you want to kick yourself: His captors were cutting his clothes off, too. Finch might not even realize that he’s among friends.

Still, the clothes need to come off, so you ignore the reaction and focus on slicing open his vest, his shirt, his undershirt. There’s an idle curiosity to it; you’re not doing this to get a peek at his scars, but you gotta admit that you’ve been wondering. And he never lets anyone see, not even Reese.

Sometimes, when you want a laugh, you try to picture Finch in a swimsuit. Turn of the century—the _nineteenth_ century—when it was considered scandalous to show off your _knees_.

As you’re pushing the layers off Finch’s shoulders, Fusco’s footsteps thunder up the hall, and he comes in with a thin fuzzy blanket and a thick comforter.

“Get his pants off,” you say, handing him the knife as you stand up. He stares at it until you shove it into his hand and grab both blankets from him. “Wet fabric needs to come off, Lionel,” you throw over your shoulder as you head for the couch and start making a sort of nest with the comforter, tucking it into the corner of the L.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First aid, including the need to get wet clothes off a (basically) unconscious person, ignoring consent (and Harold is really not the type to appreciate being naked).
> 
> Tying up the villains, somewhat creatively.


	8. Surrender (Harold POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovering from hypothermia isn't pleasant -- and Harold's brain has begun to play tricks on him.

You’re in a cocoon of discomfort and dizzying motion, rocking back and forth as you’re pulled and compressed and pulled apart again, your moans going unanswered.

The motion stops for a moment, and then you’re falling, slowly, until finally there’s a solid floor beneath you again, soft and a little warm.

What’s going on? What are they doing to you? Why do you feel like this?

Then there’s a knife working in under your clothes again, and you stiffen, terror washing through you, every sense keyed in to that point of pressure slicing your clothes off, slicing you open. You thought that Ken was done with you, that they’d done enough just taking off your sleeves, but, now, they’re going further; they’re taking everything.

Including your trousers. They’re taking your trousers off. They’re—

You flail, trying to make it stop, trying to get away; your hands strike something or someone, _hard_ , and, for a second, you freeze, sure that Ken’s going to strike you back out of reflex. When he doesn’t, you try to roll over, scrabbling at the floor until one of them grabs your hands, both hands, stopping you cold.

“No,” you try to cry out, but it’s hard to make your lungs work right. “No—stop—don’t—”

While Daichi’s got your hands, Ken’s pulling your trousers the rest of the way off, and all your struggling can’t seem to stop it. The floor is soft against your bare skin. What are they planning? You writhe, trying to get loose of the arms around you, yank yourself free of the iron grip around your wrists, but it’s useless. They’ve got you at their mercy; they’re going to take their payback, do whatever they want to you, and there’s no way for you to defend yourself against it.

But when Daichi’s hands glide over your scars—a piece of you so personal that you haven’t even shown John, in all this time—you can’t help but break out into sobs. Not just for yourself, but because Daichi went into prison without any scars of body or mind, and by now he’s surely got both. Because of _you_. Because you got scared and left them to get caught. So whatever happens to you here, you can’t even imagine that you don’t deserve it all.

As Daichi embraces you again from behind, you shudder and go still, waiting for whatever they have in store for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could be read as rape imagery. It's all in Harold's head, while Fusco gets his pants off (as first aid necessity) and Harold's pretty out of it.


	9. Priorities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fusco and Shaw start the process of warming Harold up.

You’ve never really questioned it before; Finch is kinda, what’s the word, _ethereal_ , a voice on the phone, a mind hard at work while you’re out on the streets. You’ve never stopped to wonder about the physical person beneath the high-end suits. But it turns out he’s a lightweight, even in three layers of fabric, even (it turns out) soaking wet.

Shaw gets him by the knees while you wrap your arms around his chest—he moans again, more pain this time—and then you’re carrying him up the stairs, walking carefully backwards, bumping your foot against each step to make sure of your footing, because Finch’s day already sucks enough and you sure don’t want to make it any worse.

Hard to believe you were sharing a laugh, not even an hour ago.

In the kitchen, Shaw looks around, and then directs you toward the living room, where you carefully lower Finch to the carpet. Around the bruises, his skin looks so unnaturally pale it’s unreal. Not that you haven’t seen people this pale before—a few survivors, and a lot of corpses—but it’s unreal because it’s _Finch_ , and it’s… how can it be Finch, like this? Reese is the one who gets hurt. Finch should be inviolate.

His hands look so cold. Normally, you wouldn’t presume to touch him, but the guy values his hands, right? Not, like, the way that everybody values having hands, but… ninety percent of what Finch does is typed out on some computer. You pick up one of his hands, shuddering at how frigid the skin feels, and start rubbing it, trying to restore some circulation.

But he’s gonna need more than the warmth of your hands. “You want me to find a bathtub? We gotta warm him up fast, right?”

“If you want to give him a heart attack,” Shaw replies acerbically. “And stop that, you’re gonna make it worse.”

At that, you almost drop his hand, but catch yourself and carefully lower it back to the carpet.

Before you can vocalize any sort of question— _What’s the right thing to do then? What was I doing wrong? How badly did I hurt him?_ —she tells you to go find a blanket.

A blanket. Yeah. You can do that.

Straight down the hall are a couple of bedrooms, only one of which looks lived-in. You grab the warmest-looking things you can find and hurry back, only to find Shaw peeling back layers, exposing salt-and-pepper hair along his chest, the slightly flabby build of an aging skinny guy who spends most of his time at a computer desk.

And now she’s completely disrobed him, from the waist up.

There’s something in this that hits you so wrong: Finch, always dressed to the nines and never looking a stitch out of place, lying half-naked in some stranger’s living room. You’re kinda glad that he’s out of it; he sure wouldn’t appreciate this. You, now, you’re used to losing dignity every time you turn around, but it’s like your brain wants to protect Finch’s dignity since it can’t protect your own.

So when Shaw tries to hand you a knife, bidding you _get his pants off_ , your brain rebels.

Finally, frustrated, she shoves the knife into your hand and takes the blankets from you before striding over to the couch. With you still staring at the knife.

A moment later, when you still haven’t moved, she adds, “Wet fabric needs to come off, Lionel.”

Eyes wide, you nod. First aid, right? Takes precedence over everything else. You’ve already seen Finch more undressed than you’ve ever seen in your life—first from the bare arms, and now from this; what’s one more strip of skin? And it’s better to save his hands and feet than to worry about propriety, or even his feelings, right now.

Still, you’re not going to just _cut_ them off. And it takes you a second to work up the courage to undo his belt.

But as you start to pull the pants out from under him, shivering at the touch of his icy skin—that’s when he starts fighting.

His hands fly around wildly, smacking you in the face, and then he’s trying to roll, to escape, he’s clawing at the carpet—but then Shaw is there, sliding in behind to wrap her arms around him and hold him still.

He strains against her grip, trying to pull loose, crying out _no, stop, don’t_ — 

“It’s okay, buddy,” you say, because apparently the kind of language you use with Lee is the kind that comes out of your mouth in a crisis. “It’s just us. It’s Shaw and Fusco. You’re safe.”

Shaw jerks her head at you. “I got him. Get ’em off.”

The poor guy’s struggling to get free, like you’re _tormenting_ him or something, and she wants you to keep going? But she’s the medic; she’s the one who understands what to do in a case like this, and why. Maybe Finch is absorbing vodka through his skin or something, who knows?

“Hey, calm down, we’re trying to help you,” you say, as you work the pants down his legs, frowning as you reveal more bruises. He’s not making this easy for you, either—writhing and twisting, even weakly kicking now and then. “It’s okay. You’re safe. We’re gonna help you.” Is any of this even making it through to his brain?

But eventually the pants come off, and now he’s lying there in nothing but expensive boxers. (The deep blue fabric looks nice, with small diamonds that only show up when the light hits them just right; it felt smooth against your skin as you were working his pants down over it. The guy sure doesn’t buy cheap five-packs at Walmart.)

Glancing at Shaw, you mentally beg her not to make you take the boxers off—to leave Glasses with some shred of propriety, some part of him that hasn’t been stripped open and exposed to the world. His eyes are open now, but they’re kinda glassy, staring at nothing, and he’s still struggling against her hold on his wrists.

You wish you could go back to that moment when you were sharing a quiet laugh together, before any of this started. Back when you didn’t know what it felt like to carry his body in your arms.

Luckily, Shaw shakes her head—she doesn’t require that last indignity.

When you go to lift him to the couch, though, he stiffens up suddenly, and then goes limp, sobbing. From that moment on, he’s dead weight, except for the shuddering, and you’re not sure if that makes it harder or easier than when you were bringing him up the stairs.

He doesn’t resist as you position him on the couch, surrounding him in layers of comforter—but Shaw’s gotta use both hands to keep him from sliding off onto the floor, because he’s weak enough that he can’t seem to sit up on his own. Even his head flops around a bit, so she’s using one hand to support his neck while the other is tucked into his armpit, the best grip she can get from this position.

After you’ve got him about where she wants him, she gives an irritated huff. “Fuck it,” she says. “Hold him.”

You do your best—he’s starting to fade out again, moving more weakly, but it’s still not easy—and then, a moment later, Shaw is sliding in behind him, between the comforter and Finch’s bare skin, her bare legs on either side of his. Her eyes go wide and she sucks in a quick breath. “ _F-ff-uck_ ,” she says, then follows it up with a few more repetitions, her voice a bit shaky; you grin without thinking about it, because her vocabulary is usually a _little_ more creative.

Then your brain catches up to the bare skin, and you glance down: most of her clothes are on the floor. She’s sitting skin to skin with Finch, trying to warm him with her own body heat. You know that feeling when your wife slides into bed and brushes your leg with cold feet? That’s what Shaw’s putting up with right now, over her entire body. No wonder she swore.

Shaw motions for the fuzzy blanket, and together you tuck it in around them, until they’re in a little cocoon. Then she wraps one arm around his chest and draws him back against her, leaning back onto the couch like she’s a throne for his shivering, unresisting body.

“All right,” Shaw breathes, after a moment, voice still a little shaky. “We need to get his core temperature up before we can do anything about the frostbite. Find me something like a heat pack. Warm towels from the dryer, or hot water in a bottle—not boiling, not even close, just hot from the tap. It’s not a good idea to heat him up too quickly, or to use anything that might burn him, because he might not be able to feel it or tell us that it hurts.”

“Right.”

“After that, something warm and sugary to drink. No alcohol, no caffeine. Herbal teas would be fine, or juice, or even applesauce if there's nothing else. Test it against your skin, make sure it’s not uncomfortably hot. Got it?”

“Warm stuff, inside and out. Not too hot. Got it.”

“And get those painkillers out of the car—unless they’re acetaminophen. _Tylenol_ ,” she clarifies, on your confused expression. “Once he’s got circulation back, we’re gonna need to reduce inflammation, so we need an NSAID, like aspirin or ibuprofen.”

“Ensade,” you repeat dubiously.

She sighs. “Just bring it here, whatever you’ve got, unless it’s Tylenol. But find a heat pack for me first.”

* * * * *

Finch’s struggles catch your ear, and you turn just in time to see him smack Fusco in the face; for a second, they both freeze. Then Finch is twisting away, scrabbling at the carpet like he’s trying to pull himself away but can’t quite remember how his arms work.

You hurry over and tuck in behind him, pulling him back against you and grabbing his arms, just above where the ice packs were. There’s one blessing here: His hands are moving, fingers jerking a bit, so he’s got some level of articulation—and the skin isn’t stiff to the touch. Still worrisome, but not as bad as it could have been.

“ _No_ ,” he cries out—“ _No—ssstop, don’t—_ ” His voice is slurry, indistinct.

“It’s okay, buddy,” Fusco says. “It’s just us. It’s Shaw and Fusco. You’re safe.”

Finch doesn’t need a morale coach right now; if he’s fighting you then he probably doesn’t even know what’s going on anymore. What he needs is to be dry and warm. You jerk your head at Fusco. “I got him. Get ’em off.”

The delay’s only going to hurt Finch’s chances for long-term recovery; there’s no time to worry about how Finch _feels_. Fusco doesn’t look happy, but he gets back to working the pants down around Finch’s uncooperative legs, murmuring additional encouragements as he goes.

When they’re finally off, Fusco glances at the boxers, then up at you again, a little bit of horror in his face. You shake your head—nothing constricting about boxers, and they don’t look like the type of fabric to absorb much water. But Finch is still struggling against your hold. You don’t let it stop you; the sooner you warm him up, the sooner his brain starts working right again.

As you lift his back off the floor, your hands slide over old surgery scars, and that’s when Finch starts sobbing. His struggles stop entirely as you wrap your arms around him, underneath his armpits and over his ribs. Between the two of you, you get him to the couch, and set him up on the comforter—but he’s really out of it, not even able to sit up on his own. You let Fusco handle the comforter while you use both hands to keep Finch from falling over.

There’s one obvious solution to all of this. You let out a breath and accept it. “Fuck it. Hold him.”

Stripping down to your underwear takes seconds—military training is good for a lot of little skills like that—and then you slide yourself in behind Finch’s pale body, shuddering as his frigid skin presses against yours. “ _F-ff-uck_ ,” you blurt out, a few times in a row, staring at the ceiling and panting through the change in temperature. You’ve been way colder than this before; hell, you’ve had hypothermia yourself a couple of times. It’s just the sudden shift, mostly psychological; it’s fine.

Getting Finch’s core temperature back to where it should be, that’s the primary goal. Secondary goal is tending to the frostbite. For Finch, the next hour could mean the difference between having fingers or not, so you steel yourself and just put up with the discomfort.

Once you’ve gotten control of your reactions again, you get Fusco to hand you the fuzzy blanket; then you pull Finch back against you, relaxing into the corner of the couch.

“All right,” you say, finally, and start giving Fusco some direction. It could’ve been the other way around—Fusco warming Finch while you hunt down first aid supplies—but you’re the medic, so it makes the most sense for you to stick with the patient.

Fusco, unsurprisingly, doesn’t know what NSAIDs are, but you give him instructions that shouldn’t be all that difficult to follow even if he doesn’t grasp the details.

And then you’re there with Finch, his head tucked back against your shoulder as your chest warms up his back… the violent shakes slowly quieting down into shivers, breaths getting a little fuller, less shallow.

“You’re gonna be okay, Finch,” you find yourself murmuring, even though you’ve never been the type to bother with verbal reassurances. What is it about this man that makes everyone who gets to know him want to comfort him, keep him safe? He’s been so _frustrating_ , even from the first time you met him—you’ve never cared for the enigmatic types, and it took you a long time to get to the point where you trusted him. But it didn’t take quite so long for you to conclude that, despite how aloof he seems, how unwilling to connect with other people on a personal level, he’s like the exact opposite of you: He’s got so much emotion in him, so much caring for other people, so much outrage at the evils in the world, that he _has_ to tamp it down and hide it or it’ll be too much to bear.

You think that’s part of why he created the Machine: a way to push some of that emotion outside himself, so he didn’t have to deal with it anymore. And then it turned around and pulled him right back into the thick of it.

Were today’s events one more facet of his creation, come to haunt him? _It’s all my fault_. Of course, the Machine is hardly Finch’s only secret, just the biggest and most world-shaking one to date. Who knows where today’s danger came from. Maybe when he’s better he might tell you.

Probably not, though. Which you’re fine with, as long as it’s not leaving open another vulnerability, like you not knowing about his medication list. There’s a few secrets that you share with the team, just out of pragmatism, even if you’d prefer that they didn’t know. But that’s up to Finch whether he takes the pragmatic route or not.

He’s quiet, now, lying against you. It’d be oddly peaceful, if it weren’t for being in the middle of a medical emergency. You check his pulse—still sluggish, but better than last time; he doesn’t react to the pressure at all. At least he’s getting warmer now; it’s simply a matter of time, and seeing how well his body handles the change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First aid, including the need to take clothing off an unwilling person (who's mostly out of it, but resisting). Skin-to-skin contact to warm up a person who's mostly unconscious.


	10. Sense Dream (Harold POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold's body is warming up, but his mind hasn't quite resurfaced just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Odd sensory imagery. Doesn't seem like anything really worth warning for.

You float in warmth, rocking gently, like you’re in a shallow lake in the summer, back when you didn’t mind strangers looking at your skin. It’s calm, and peaceful, and quiet.

You can’t feel your hands, at first. Like they’re bundled in mittens, or gauze. Like the fingers aren’t working. But they’re starting to sting a little, like a sunburn, or being out in the hail, tiny spikes of pain across the skin.

But there’s no feeling at all from your feet, and you don’t feel like worrying about that right now. In here, maybe you don’t even have any feet. It’s a dream, right?

You’ve never had a dream without visual imagery. This is all… sensory, different types of touch. Something heavy across your chest.

It’s hard to focus, though.

Something moves, and then there’s a spot of heat blossoming across your chest, drawing you into its warmth. It’s a different kind of weight, and hard, but it’s easier to just lie here and breathe, to let it happen and not fight it.

There’s sounds, though. At first they’re distant and indistinct, but they’re starting to sound more like words, more like something you should pay attention to. Like being roused from sleep.

You’re not sure where you’d rather be right now.


	11. Gathering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fusco scavenges for supplies while Shaw keeps Harold safe and warm.

You get the kitchen faucet running while you hunt for any sort of container that might work for a source of heat. Fringe, pantry, cupboards—best you can find is a large sports drink bottle, mostly empty. You pour the rest into the sink… and then realize that you could’ve used it for that drink Finch needs. Too late now.

While the bottle’s filling up, you jog down the hallway to the bathroom, pick out some fluffy towels from under the sink, then start looking for a laundry room. But none of the downstairs rooms have a washing machine or anything. Despite the four stories, it’s a pretty small house; maybe they do laundry in town. Or it could be upstairs.

The bottle sounds like it’s overflowing, so you head back to the kitchen. When you pour a bit over your wrist—remembering how to check baby bottles, from when Lee was a kid—it’s practically scalding. You pour it out and start over, being more careful about the temperature this time.

The stairs are tight, not even wide enough for two people to walk side by side. Definitely grandfathered in; nobody has a stairway this narrow in a modern house. But the bathroom’s much nicer than downstairs, and it’s got a large tub—nothing like that sorry walk-in shower you’ve got back at your place. How’d they even get it up those stairs? Maybe they had to tear out a window, hoist it up by crane.

Still no dryer, though.

There’s a master bedroom up here, so you snag a couple more blankets and tote them downstairs, tuck ’em on either side of the little nest they got going, and head back on the scavenger hunt.

“Keep an eye out for a thermometer,” Shaw calls after you.

Now that you poured out that sports drink, you’re stuck for other possible liquids. Hot water, sure, but that’s not sugary. There’s energy drinks in the fridge, but that’s a caffeine overload. Why is caffeine a bad thing, anyway? Get the heart racing or something? Little cans of coffee, still no good. Sugar-free flavored water.

There’s a big can of pineapple juice in the pantry, which’d be just the thing if you knew where a can opener was. You go through every drawer you can see, but there’s nothing useful, not even a sharp knife.

No sharp knives? What kind of house doesn’t even have a kitchen knife?

At least the water bottle’s ready. You test the water, cap it tight, dry it off, wrap it in a small towel, and deliver it to Shaw. Then you go fetch the painkillers from the car.

Tylenol. It would be. And that’s three for three.

The bathroom medicine chest has shaving cream and alcohol-free aftershave and toothpaste and stuff, but no pills. Upstairs bathroom doesn’t have any pills either, and you’re getting the idea that you’re backtracking a bit too much for this assignment.

No dryer, no can opener, no painkillers. No thermometer.

You let out a heavy sigh and tromp back down the stairs to the basement.

Two silent faces turn your way. The bigger guy—Ken—seems calmer, more composed than he was while Shaw was tying him up; his breaths are full and even, a little more peaceful than you might expect, given the circumstances.

Daichi’s face is all blotchy, like he’s been crying. Ugh. You can’t stand the kind of guys who cause deliberate harm and then go all to pieces when they get caught.

“Hey,” you say, addressing your comment toward Ken, “you guys got a can opener somewhere?”

They blink at you, incredulous. Daichi licks his lips. “It’s on the counter.”

“What about a clothes dryer?”

“Are you camping out in our house, now?” Ken asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Look, you guys try to freeze our friend, we need ways to warm him up.” You don’t miss Daichi’s wince. As if he actually had some sympathy for his victim or something. Right. “You got a dryer or not?”

Ken sighs. “Garage.”

Oh… right. Where they hid the car; you kinda forget they had one of those.

“Thermometer?”

“No.”

“How about pills? Like painkillers?”

“I don’t keep painkillers in the house,” Ken says.

Daichi swallows. “Uh…”

“How about in the car?”

“We don’t have any—”

“Behind my dresser,” Daichi says. “Downstairs bedroom, if you push the dresser forward a bit—”

Ken looks over his shoulder, brows drawn together in concern. “Dai, you didn’t—”

Daichi slumps a little in the ropes, but doesn’t answer him.

“All right, thanks,” you say, and turn to head back up the stairs.

“Is he all right?” Daichi blurts out. “Harold—is he—”

“What do you care?”

“I just… how badly did we hurt him? Does he need to get to a hospital?”

Your eyes narrow as you stare him down. “I been a cop a long time, you know? I’ve had to deal with any number of people who get their rocks off by hurting people who can’t fight back. Like to inject themselves into the investigation, get a little extra thrill from seeing the kind of damage they did. The lives they destroyed. Well, I ain’t gonna be party to that.”

Daichi has gone pale. “I’m not— that’s not—”

“And maybe,” you cut over him, “instead of thinking about your victim, you ought to be thinking about what you’re gonna be doing for the next ten years or so. From behind bars.” Assuming Reese doesn’t find out, but it’s not like telling them that would make anything better.

As you head back up the stairs, you hear Daichi start to sniffle.

* * * * *

You sent Fusco away for a hot water bottle or hot towels, hot liquids, and painkillers, so of course he brings you more blankets, the one thing you already have. Typical.

As he tucks them in around you both, you test Finch’s cheek with the back of your hand. Still cool, but better, you think. Seems like he’s getting warmer, but it’d be nice to have a more objective way of monitoring his progress.

As Fusco heads off again, you tell him to look for a thermometer.

After rummaging through the kitchen a bit more, he returns with a hot water bottle, dry and covered with a towel—always a good precaution. You tuck it in under the blanket and hold it to Finch’s chest, warming your own hands at the same time. Fusco heads out the back door—your lip quirks as you wonder if he forgot that there’s a front door that could’ve made a shorter trip—and then, shortly, comes back empty-handed. He looks your way and shrugs before heading into the back of the house.

The inefficiency of his search algorithm is both irritating and amusing; no wonder he’s a cop instead of a covert ops specialist who needs to be in and out before anyone notices. You bet he’s lost a few cases because he wasn’t able to find evidence in a timely manner.

Then, surprisingly, he heads down to the basement.

 

How long has Finch been out of it? You really should’ve been keeping track. You didn’t check the time that you started treatment, and your phone’s down in the pile of clothing so you can’t even check it now, either. Guess you’ll ask for it when Fusco gets back.

On the up side, you’re no longer cold yourself, which means that his body isn’t sapping heat away from you faster than you can produce it. Between the two of you, you’re producing enough heat that this impromptu cocoon is getting rather comfy. Not the position, so much—you’d really like to move your legs around, find another way to sit—but the temperature’s nice. And his shivers have dropped to practically nothing.

Plus, there’s something unexpectedly pleasant about feeling his lungs expand next to yours. Over the time you’ve been sitting here, you’ve listened to his breathing gradually speed up, getting back to more normal rhythms, and, by now, you’re in sync with each other, the rise and fall of your chests happening in concert. It’s an odd sort of comfort.

He’s not sleeping, you don’t think, but you’re not sure if he’s still fighting off pain or if he’s just not surfacing right now. Maybe his body’s redirecting enough resources that, for the moment, it needs to keep him in an inactive state.

Hypothermia is a state that you really ought to understand better; you’ve studied it in med school, experienced it firsthand multiple times while working in some of the most inhospitable locations on earth (which is why you don’t find New York’s winters to be all that bothersome), even had to treat Cole for it once after he stayed on a rooftop too long, trying to get you info. But Cole never got frostbite, and the patients you got to work with weren’t much like what Finch is going through. And your personal experience has generally been of the lowest symptoms, easy to self-treat; the one time you got it bad was also the time that your brain stopped working right, so it’s not like you were paying close attention to your symptoms at the time.

At least Finch isn’t tearing off his own clothes. That’s something, at least.

Which is a funny thought, given how you just divested him of nearly 100% of his remaining wardrobe. Trying to keep him from getting cold enough to start undressing himself.

 

Fusco’s back, hunting through the kitchen counter. Pretty soon he starts muttering to himself.

When he spends enough time there to bother you, you finally ask, “What are you after now?”

“They said the can opener’s on the counter, here, but I can’t see anything that looks like—”

“It’s the white thing, stuck on the wall.”

He pauses, looks it over skeptically. “What the hell is this?”

“It opens cans, Lionel. You’ve never seen a wall-mounted unit before?”

He sighs and shakes his head, not so much an answer to your question as an exasperation with the world, and soon he’s fussing over a large can, trying to get the device to actually do its job.

Eventually, he figures it out, and brings over a glass of warm pineapple juice. Probably gonna be cool again by the time Finch comes to, but the sugar might still help stoke his furnace again. Fusco sticks the glass on the little coffee table next to the couch, and heads off to go hunting through rooms again.

 

“Hey, Finch,” you murmur. “Think maybe you’re ready to join us again? Got some nice, warm juice for you.”

You didn’t realize how deeply worried you’d been until he stirs a little, his breath changing cadence, and tries to sit up.

“Hey,” you say softly, “relax. Still gotta warm you up a bit. Wait until Fusco gets back with those towels.”

For a moment, he refuses; then, not entirely willingly, he slowly leans back against you, seemingly more of exhaustion than surrender. The sound he makes is as close to a whimper as you could ever imagine him making; you’re not sure if it’s cold, or pain, or disorientation, or the fact that you’re sitting together on the couch, skin to skin, but, whatever it is, he’s clearly distressed by it.

“You know where you are?” you ask quietly. “Do you know what happened?”

He swallows, and raises his arms, seemingly confused by the blankets for a moment. Feels around your hands, around the water bottle you’ve still got pressed to his chest.

“Miss Shh-Shaw?” he asks, after a moment; still a little slurry, but a far cry from the inarticulate cries from earlier. The question itself is a little tense. “Why… ah…”

“Why are we on the couch practically naked together? First aid, Harold. Gotta get your core temperature up.”

He pauses, processes that. “My… my hands aren’t moving right.”

“That’s probably temporary. Do you feel cold?”

“Not… ah, perhaps a little.”

“You don’t seem to be shivering quite so much. That’s progress.”

His head lolls back onto your shoulder again, as if he’s too tired to keep it upright. “Where are we? I don’t… recognize this room.”

“Oh, couple of friends let us borrow it for an hour or two.”

“Friends…?”

“We’ll get to that later. You tired?”

He takes in a deep breath; you smile, because that means he’s in charge of his breathing again. No more reflex. Then he nods, cautiously, and winces. “I could certainly… benefit from a good night’s sleep. How close are we to the library?”

“Pretty close, but we gotta get you warmed up first.” You pause, considering. “You said your hands feel weird. What about your feet?”

His breath comes a little bit faster, now. Fear? Pain? But he doesn’t answer.

You reach one hand up and squeeze his shoulder, recalling something about that being comforting. “Harold, you got hurt. I need to know how badly. How do your feet feel?”

He winces again, and still hesitates. But then, tensely: “Like two giant nests of fire ants. What—what kind of—”

“Frostbite.”

Finch sucks in a breath at that, right about the same time that Fusco comes back, bearing an armful of red towels.

“Think you can sit up on your own now?” you ask, gently.

“Of course, Miss Shaw,” he replies, and straightens up, but swaying a little, like he’s not quite there yet. “I’m… I’m sorry to have… inconvenienced you this way.”

“Hey, I’m the medic,” you counter. “Kinda my job. Now stay still a minute.”

You slide your way out from behind him, then help him scoot back until his body is supported by the corner of the couch. “It’ll be a while before we can figure out if there’s any permanent damage,” you say as you tuck the warm towels in around him, starting with his hands. “But now that we’ve dealt with the hypothermia, it’s time to work on your hands and feet a bit. Probably not going to be comfortable, though—but that’s a good thing. The pain means that you’ve still got nerves down there.”

Finch’s mouth is open, and his eyebrows work for a bit, but eventually he just closes his mouth and nods.

As you bundle his feet in warmth, you cautiously feel the skin, careful to avoid pressure. Swollen, seems like, but not stiff—not waxy or cold to the touch. “Can you wiggle your toes at all?” He does so—barely—and winces, panting a little. That’s good. Cautiously optimistic, here; Finch’s chances are looking up.

“Find any painkillers?” you ask, and Fusco shrugs and hands over what he found. It’s a little sandwich bag with a few dozen mixed pills; some are certainly over-the-counter and others… probably not. You weigh the risk of a little cross-contamination against the need to get that swelling down before it does further damage, and figure it’s best to use them anyway.

While Fusco tucks the blankets in around the towels, you retrieve your phone from the pile of clothes and quickly look up the most familiar pill by the imprinted numbers. _Naproxen_ —hefty dosage, but that’s good right now. You glance over the counter-indications.

“Hey, Finch, you allergic to anything?”

“Mango and kiwi,” he says. “The kiwi’s not exactly an allergic reaction, though, just a sensitivity. I’m not aware of any allergic reaction to any medication.”

“On any blood thinners, or daily aspirin?”

His eyes narrow—just the normal resistance to questions that invade his privacy. “…Neither of those,” he admits, finally.

“Antidepressants?”

“I’m not on any regular or prescription medications, except for pain relief, and I take those only rarely.”

“Good to know,” you say, and bring over the pineapple juice, by now just slightly over room temperature. When Finch tries to get his hands out, you put your free hand on his, squeezing him lightly through the blanket. “Let’s not put extra stress on your hands until we’re sure they’re okay.”

After a moment, he nods, and opens his mouth. You make sure he can swallow a sip of juice before helping him get the pill down, and then put the juice away for now.

Then you go to get your clothes back on, ignoring the possibility that either one of them is watching.

“You feeling better, Professor?” Fusco asks.

There’s a pause. “I am feeling… underdressed, to begin with. I realize that it might have been necessary, given the circumstances, and that I appear to have been too out of it to have given proper consent, but I shall be infinitely more comfortable once I am back in my own suit.”

“Guess you’re back, then,” Fusco says, his voice light. Then he rubs the back of his head, sheepishly. “Uh… sorry ’bout the suit.”

“…What?” Finch’s voice is strained.

“Well, I mean, uh, when we got here, they’d already cut the sleeves off, and then Shaw decided to—”

“Wait… who?” He sucks in a breath, and suddenly his voice is panicked. “Oh my god, they’re—are they all right? Did they get hurt? He—he didn’t kill them, did he?”

You turn to look at him. “What?”

“Mr. Reese—he’s going to—you have to stop him.” He struggles to get up, and you stop him by sitting down beside him and wrapping an arm around his chest.

“You’re not putting pressure on those feet,” you say. “We can _call_ Reese. What do we need to tell him?” You dig out your phone again, check the time—5:48, that was close—and shoot off a quick message to Zoe, pushing the deadline up to 8:00 instead (just in case this still goes sour) and adding info about the address and the perps, and that you found Finch intact. (You kinda want to put “reasonably intact,” as it’s more accurate, but you just know that Reese is gonna focus on the phrasing and transform into some destructive angel of vengeance.)

“He’s not here?” Finch asks, panting a little.

“Nah, he’s not even back from Long Island yet,” Fusco responds. “And he don’t know about any of this. Yet.” A pause. “Unless she’s telling him.”

“Please don’t tell him,” Finch implores. “I don’t want him to know.”

“Gonna be hard to hide frostbite,” you assert. The way he’s talking… there’s something here that you’re missing. “Why don’t you want him to know?”

“If he finds out that they hurt me—you know how he gets. Miss Shaw… Detective… if he has to know what happened to me, please find some way to keep the Okamotos out of this.”

“After what they did to you?” Fusco blusters, voice outraged but face confused.

“Yes, I… I remember. That’s… hypothermia and frostbite, you said, Miss Shaw?”

“Yeah. The major danger’s past as far as the hypothermia, though I still want to keep an eye on you for a couple hours. But frostbite’s hard to tell right away. Could think it’s fine and have it turn black in a couple of days. That’s permanent damage.”

Finch’s face goes a little paler, but he nods, as if accepting the prognosis. “Nevertheless, those men were my friends once. I do not wish to see them harmed. Or jailed. At all.”

Fusco openly gapes at this.

“That’s all well and good,” you say, not really thinking it’s either, “but if we’re not gonna harm them, and we’re not gonna turn them over to the cops, then what’s the plan for dealing with them? Are they just gonna come after you again?”

“I… I suppose it’s best that I… talk with them,” Finch says, and your brain gives an instant _No way in hell_ to that suggestion… but it really ought to be Finch’s call. There’s nothing they can do to him right now aside from words, and you and Fusco will be right there with him…

“…Let’s take care of the frostbite first,” you say. “Lionel, you found us a bathtub?”

“Yeah.”

“Upstairs or ground floor?”

“Both, but the upstairs one’s bigger.”

“Okay. Finch, I don’t want you walking on those feet just yet. If the frostbite’s bad, it could exacerbate the damage. You all right with us carrying you upstairs?”

He takes several deep breaths to adjust to that notion. Finally, he nods. “I trust you to know what’s best for my care, Miss Shaw.”

“All right, then. Let’s get you upstairs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Implication of illegal or dangerous drug use of OTC drugs.
> 
> Disorientation. Effects of hypothermia and frostbite (some pain).


	12. Reorienting (Harold POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I got to enjoy a bit of an amnesia-style chapter here. I don't think it's unlikely that he'd lose track of details for a while, get a bit disoriented before he sorts it all out.

You surface to Shaw asking if you’d like some juice. For a moment, you struggle against the weight on your chest, but at the calm reassurance in her voice—you can’t quite make out the words—you realize that there’s no emergency, and no reason to fight off the exhaustion that’s sapping away what little energy you have left.

But relaxing back twinges your neck, and that calls attention to other feelings in your body. Your feet feel heavy and cold, and tingly, like they’ve been dipped in hot sauce. Your neck and back ache, and even little shifts send jolts like electric shocks up your spine. You feel bruised all over, and your hands… you can’t even feel your fingers.

Shaw says something, right next to your ear, and you realize that the thing you’re leaning against is warm and solid and a little sweaty—another human body, wrapped around yours.

There’s heavy blankets around the both of you, and something hard and warm pressed against your chest. You try to reach for it, but encounter Shaw’s hands, instead, which only drives home that your own are… stiff, and low on sensation, except for the tingling sensation like in your feet.

“Miss Shaw?” you ask, but it’s hard to work your tongue. “Why… ah…”

“Why are we on the couch practically naked together?” She shifts a little, behind you. “First aid, Harold. Gotta get your core temperature up.”

Core temperature. You don’t… _feel_ cold. Just your feet. Were you… “My… my hands aren’t moving right.”

“That’s probably temporary,” she says, seemingly unconcerned. “Do you feel cold?”

“Not…” Not except for your feet. “Ah… perhaps a little.”

“You don’t seem to be shivering quite so much. That’s progress.”

It’s suddenly too much effort to keep your head up, and, without even meaning to, you let it drop back against Shaw’s shoulder. Blinking, you take in the unfamiliar room. But when you ask about it, Shaw passes it off as the house of some “friends.”

You wouldn’t be surprised if these friends were minor criminals or drug dealers that she’d just scared into compliance. Maybe locked up in the bathroom so you’ve got a safe place to recover.

“We’ll get to that later,” she’s saying. “You tired?”

Giving yourself a moment to breathe, you take inventory. ‘Tired’ would be an understatement. And when you nod, it sends a fresh jolt of pain up your neck. You want to be back at one of your safe houses, with pillows specifically designed to support your neck the right way, and the chance to consider taking some painkillers and muscle relaxants without being afraid of the consequences. “I could certainly… benefit from a good night’s sleep. How close are we to the library?”

Shaw still doesn’t know where your safe houses are—most of them. Perhaps someday she’ll have earned your trust enough to know more.

“We gotta get you warmed up first,” Shaw says, and then calls attention back to your feet.

You’ve been trying not to think about them, because feet shouldn’t feel like this, part dead flesh and part live wire. What happened to them? It feels like something’s seriously wrong.

But, as you’re fighting back the panic, Shaw’s hand squeezes your shoulder. “Harold,” she says, “you got hurt. I need to know how badly. How do your feet feel?”

She’s right—she’s the medic, the one who could actually help you if this is truly serious. But, for a moment, you struggle for words.

When you finally put together something that conveys the feeling with any adequacy—“Like two giant nests of fire ants”—she says a word that sends a chill down your spine.

“Frostbite.”

 

When she asks you to sit up, you try, but your body’s not quite up to the task of staying upright. It’s not like being drunk so much as your muscles just being too exhausted to operate. “I’m sorry,” you murmur, “to have… inconvenienced you this way.”

“Hey, I’m the medic,” Shaw says with a grim sort of grin. “Kinda my job.”

After she gets out from behind you, she helps reposition you so that you’re supported by the sofa; she evidently wants to keep you from putting any pressure on your hands. “It’ll be a while before we can figure out if there’s any permanent damage,” she says, covering your hands with warm towels. And then she starts talking about the treatment. It’s a little disorienting, trying to wrap your head around the steps to treat a condition when you don’t even recall how you got it.

Pain, she says, is a good thing. “Means that you’ve still got nerves down there.”

As if you needed more pain in your life. At least this one’s temporary… you hope. She’s being a little cagey about the details.

While bundling up your feet, she asks you to wiggle your toes, which turns out to be both difficult and agonizing, the stiff muscles feeling a bit like there are shards of glass inside them. But Shaw seems relieved by the fact that you can move them at all.

Fusco hands her a bag of pills—painkillers, apparently—and she does her due diligence looking up the details and asking you a few questions to make sure she doesn’t cause any adverse effects. It’s not easy for you to bring yourself to answer her honestly, even though you know it’s in the best interest of not just you but the entire team; you’re hardly this open with doctors, but then, you have your reasons for secrecy, as well as not trusting their judgment.

You really ought to get a full medical workup to Shaw. The idea of sharing that much with her—with _anyone_ —is _deeply_ uncomfortable, but you do need to be kept in working order if you’re going to keep working the cases, and she’s the doctor that you can trust the most to have your best interests in mind.

When she brings you the pills, you try to free your hands and reach for them, but she holds your arms down, gently but firmly, and gives them a little squeeze. “Let’s not put extra stress on your hands,” she says, “until we’re sure they’re okay.”

The helplessness grates at you, but you can see the sense in it. You open your mouth. Surprisingly, she doesn’t give you the pills at first—just a sip of juice. Then she observes you while you swallow, before she finally nods and helps you take the pills.

She puts the juice on the coffee table, and then steps away from the sofa—enough that you can see, for the first time, that she’s down to bra and underwear. And starting to get dressed, right there in your sight.

Thankfully, Fusco takes that moment to crouch in front of you and ask if you’re feeling better. He calls you ‘Professor,’ an endearment that you’ve heard a couple times from him, and it’s never been a bad thing… but you’ve never heard it spoken with this much concern on your behalf.

Trying to keep your eyes focused on his face, instead of the reverse strip tease in the background, you consider. “I am feeling… underdressed, to begin with.” It’s not that you don’t understand _why_ , but having a legitimate reason to have woken up mostly nude in a stranger’s living room doesn’t make it any less awkward. “I shall be infinitely more comfortable once I am back in my own suit,” you conclude.

Fusco’s grinning in that endearing way of his, the way that mostly comes out when he talks about people he likes—Carter, or Lee, or, very rarely, a moment of admiration for Reese. “Guess you’re back, then,” he says, but then his eyes drop, and he rubs the back of his head. “Uh… sorry ’bout the suit.”

You stare at him. “…What?”

From his expression and fumbling attempts to justify it, it's like he thinks that destroying your suit was the Unpardonable Sin. “When we got here, they’d already cut the sleeves off, and then—”

There’s a rushing sound in your head again, a sudden reminder of why you’re here, why you’re being treated for hypothermia, for frostbite—for damage from extreme cold. _Dear God_. “They’re—are they all right? Did they get hurt?” _Is Reese here already?_ “He—he didn’t kill them, did he?” _Are they still in the basement? Is Reese torturing them?_ “Mr. Reese—he’s going to—you have to stop him.”

But as you struggle to get out of the blankets, you find Shaw’s arm, strong and unyielding, across your chest.

“We can _call_ Reese,” she says. “What do we need to tell him?”

“He’s not here?” _Where is he? How long has it been? Is this even the right house?_

“He’s not even back from Long Island yet,” Fusco responds. “And he don’t know about any of this. Yet.” A pause. “Unless _she’s_ telling him.”

Shaw’s typing on a phone. _No. Please._

“Please don’t tell him,” you beg, trying to tamp down the panic. If he doesn’t already know what happened—“I don’t want him to know.”

“Gonna be hard to hide frostbite,” Shaw says archly. “Why don’t you want him to know?”

You struggle to convey some fraction of the thoughts, the fears, that are whirring through your head right now. “If he has to know what happened to me,” you conclude, “please find some way to keep the Okamotos out of this.”

“After what they did to you?” The outrage from Fusco is palpable—but he also looks… conflicted. Like he wants to be all black-and-white about this, and knows it can’t be.

A memory of the pain comes back, the panic as the ice truly started to burn. The way your body couldn’t help but try to escape it. The fear of your friends not reaching you in time.

But it doesn’t matter. Even Shaw explaining that you could have permanent damage, it doesn’t matter. “Those men were my friends once,” you assert, sure of your footing. “I do not wish to see them harmed. Or jailed,” you add, knowing that sending them back to prison would be handing them a worse fate than just shooting them in the head.

They argue with you, briefly, and seem even more alarmed when you say you’d like to talk with the men who hurt you. But Shaw deflects the issue into the more immediate need for first aid.

You acquiesce, knowing that your friends will certainly be less inclined to honor your wishes if in entails serious injury. But you’re firm in your resolve, now. You’re going to face your old friends on equal footing, this time, and you’re going to discuss the future they want to have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First aid, including cuddling skin-to-skin. Disorientation. Effects of hypothermia and frostbite.


	13. Warming Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally get Harold up into a warm bath, to defrost whatever's left of the ice crystals in his extremities. And he begins to level with them about some things.

After Shaw helps you figure out the can opener—which, it turns out, has a magnet to hold the can in place, although it doesn’t work with a can this heavy, though you really only need to punch a hole in either side so you can pour it out—you warm the juice up in the microwave. The first batch is way too hot (maybe that’s because pineapple juice is so sweet?), but the second’s about right, so you bring it her way. Only Finch is still passed out, so he’s in no condition to be drinking anything right now.

You get the towels going in the dryer before you head for Daichi’s bedroom. The dresser moves easily, and there they are, a little baggie hanging on a nail. Lots of pills; you don’t recognize any illegal substances, though. At least, none of the most common ones, but you guess it’s up to Shaw to sort them all out.

There’s something niggling in the back of your mind about Daichi keeping pills like this. Keeping them secret from his brother. But you shake it off, not caring to put much thought into those two assholes. Not after what _they_ did.

You head back to the garage; if Finch isn’t aware enough to swallow juice, then the pills can wait for a few minutes. The towels are slightly warm, but you decide to give them another few minutes, get them nice and hot if you can.

In the meantime, you glance around the place. Not much here, really, just the car and a bit of junk on a shelf, a few things piled in a corner. It fits with the rest of the house: enough detail to be personal, but not enough to really feel lived-in. The normal stuff that fills up space, the accumulated crud of a lifetime in consumer culture, that’s all but absent here.

Well, as long as you’re waiting… you phone in a request for more information on the Okamotos, info you didn’t get from just the license plate lookup.

What comes back is… odd. Outside your expectations. These guys spent twenty-eight years in Lucasville, but they don’t appear to be violent. Got involved in a few fights, sure, and two escape attempts, bit of contraband… could’ve been out in half the time if they hadn’t screwed around like that. But the original conviction, the reason they were in there to begin with, was for scams and… “phone phreaking,” that’s a phrase you haven’t heard before. Back in ’81.

Phones were a lot different, back then. You wonder what they would’ve thought of the idea of carrying a phone around in your pocket and using it to look up information stored in magic boxes around the world.

There’s not much else you can glean from the police database. They haven’t screwed up since leaving prison; in four years, the most they’ve been accused of is a few parking violations. You might think of them as properly reformed—if not for today.

What the hell made them come down on Finch like this, anyway? Doesn’t make sense. Unless he crossed them, somehow, within the past couple of years. Or… if he knew them, back before they got arrested.

If they harbored a grudge this long, then whatever he did to earn their ire must’ve been… well, worse than anything the Finch you know now is capable of doing.

No… you’d like to believe that, but it’s not true. You’ve seen something dark in Finch sometimes, some little hint of what he might be willing to do if he thought it was justified, and it wouldn’t be pretty. He’s not some angelic creature up above it all; he’s as much prone to evil as the rest of you, just better at holding himself back. Like how you got, after Carter got to work on you—focused on doing the right thing, and remembering _why_ you want to be the good sort of cop instead of the bad sort of cop. Why you’re willing to accept greater hardship than you have to, because taking the easy route leads somewhere you don’t want to go.

You didn’t start out being a bad cop. You got dragged into it. Maybe if you’d put more effort into resisting… but then, you’d had to choose between doing the right thing, and standing by your friends. And you chose to stand by your friends.

It’s hard to think of Finch, a younger Finch, being at the stage where he was choosing to do the wrong thing. Except… that’s what he’s doing _now_ , isn’t it? Been doing ever since you met him. He’s chosen to break the law, in order to accomplish a greater good. Just like you chose to break the law, in order to avoid doing harm to your friends.

Only, that’s doing wrong things in order to do right things. Like Finch planning to break Reese out of jail. That’s a noble motive. You can’t see these guys getting this mad at Finch over noble motives… unless, maybe, they simply aren’t aware of why he did whatever it is that he did.

No, this seems more like Finch doing something very wrong. And it’s beyond you to imagine what sort of crime that could be.

You check the dryer, pull out an armful of warm towels, and head back inside.

When you open the door, you hear Finch talking—and even before you make out the words, you feel a rush of relief run through you. He’s sitting up, too, though he’s not exactly steady yet. Shaw gets out from behind him and grabs some towels, and soon Finch is tucked into the corner of the sofa, surrounded by warmth, but his face troubled, and he keeps wincing like he’s fighting back pain.

Small wonder.

Shaw mentions that the pain’s a good thing, and you can see that, but you’re still glad when she asks you for the painkillers. Glasses shouldn’t have to put up with more pain than he gets from those injuries he tries so hard to hide.

After checking her phone for who knows what exactly, Shaw asks about allergies and drug interactions and you watch Finch’s face growing a little more sour (and more resigned) with each question he has to answer. It’s an unavoidable breach of privacy, if she’s gonna make sure not to do him more harm than good, but you’re still glad when the questions are over and she’s helping him get a couple pills down.

When she goes to put her clothes back on, you crouch down by Finch, searching his face. “You feeling better, Professor?”

He frowns. “I am feeling… underdressed, to begin with. I realize that it might have been necessary, given the circumstances, and that I appear to have been too out of it to have given proper consent, but I shall be infinitely more comfortable once I am back in my own suit.”

You grin, wondering just how often you use words of more than three syllables. Guy must be great at Scrabble—not that you think he ever makes time to play it. “Guess you’re back, then,” you say with a grin.

Then, remembering that his suit is lying in shredded pieces on the living room carpet: “Uh… sorry ’bout the suit.”

Alarm flashes across Finch’s face. “…What?”

“Well, uh, I mean,” you flounder. “When we got here, they’d already cut the sleeves off, and then Shaw decided to—”

“Wait… who?” He gasps, face shifting to panic. “Oh my god, they’re—are they all right? Did they get hurt? He—he didn’t kill them, did he?”

“What?”

“Mr. Reese—he’s going to—you have to stop him.”

When he tries to get to his feet, Shaw stops him cold. “We can _call_ Reese,” she says. And then she’s got her phone out and she’s typing away.

“He’s not here?” Finch is panting, brows drawn together, something desperate about his eyes.

“Nah, he’s not even back from Long Island yet. And he don’t know about any of this. Yet.” You glance at Shaw’s thumbs, typing away. “Unless _she’s_ telling him.”

“Please don’t tell him. I don’t want him to know.”

“Gonna be hard to hide frostbite,” Shaw gripes.

“If he finds out that they hurt me…” And then he’s begging you to “keep the Okamotos out of this.”

You’re seeing red. “After what they did to you?”

You don’t even know how bad it is, yet. _Shaw_ doesn’t even know. You’ve seen frostbite cases before; they’re nasty. And Glasses hates hospitals to begin with; you don’t want to think about him undergoing amputations, getting prosthetic feet.

“Those men were my friends once,” Finch asserts, his voice a bit firmer but with a tremor of fear underneath. “I do not wish to see them harmed. Or jailed. At all.”

You can’t help but gape. Finch is… well, he’s not always merciful, and harm done to innocents can drive him to a quiet fury that you’ve only seen a couple times in your life and hope to never see again, but he’s far too forgiving for his own good. If trying to physically harm him isn’t enough to sever ties with old friends, then what does it take?

It falls to Shaw to point out the obvious problem: What do you do with a couple of violent criminals without killing them or jailing them? Just let them go, after they already kidnapped him once? No wonder Finch doesn’t want you telling him: Reese would come _unglued_.

Then Finch says that he wants to talk with them. The men who could’ve killed him.

Makes _you_ want to come unglued.

Luckily, Shaw deflects it, for the moment, with thoughts of getting him into a warm bath. So the only question is how to get him upstairs.

 

It was weird enough when Finch was out of it; trying to carrying him up through a too-narrow stairway while he’s awake enough to object is almost painful, even though he seems to be taking it well. He’s wrapped in the fuzzy blanket, warm towels still around his hands and feet; you’re aware of every bump, every time you jostle him without meaning to, every suppressed wince when his neck bends a little the wrong way.

It’s a relief to finally put him down, carefully, on the carpet-covered toilet lid, while Shaw heads over to draw a bath. There’s not much you can do at this point, other than arrange the towels around his feet a little better, noting that they’re not even hot anymore. Makes you feel even _more_ useless.

“It’s gonna hurt,” Shaw throws over her shoulder. “Sensation coming back… not gonna be pleasant. I’m not sure those pills will even take the edge off. You prepared for that?”

Finch raises his chin. “It does not appear that I have much choice.”

“Well, not if you want to keep your feet.” She swishes her arm around in the water. “Hey, Lionel, go grab that juice and heat it up again, will you?”

You check to make sure that Finch isn’t gonna fall over, and head downstairs.

* * * * *

Eventually, the water’s right, and Finch has finally gotten a glass of warm pineapple juice in him, so you’re no longer worried about core temperature or the possibility of shock if cold blood hits his heart right now. Fusco strips off his jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves, and, with his help, you get Finch sat on the edge of the tub, keep him supported while he trembles and gasps through the first touch of barely-over-lukewarm water on his feet. As you lower his body into the water, you’re glad for the larger tub, since it allows Fusco to help you support him the whole way, without too much crowding—keeping the pressure of his body off his feet.

Once he’s fully submerged—with your arm keeping his head from going under—you let out a sigh of relief. He’s still trembling, his face screwed up with pain, but you’ve done everything you can to get him through this. His body’s working overtime to help him get back to normal temperature; you’re just helping it along.

“Just gotta get through this,” you murmur, when he’s hit by what looks like a pretty strong wave of pain. “You’re good at that.”

“Good at what?” he asks, through nearly clenched teeth.

“Bearing up under hardship. Taking pain and not letting the rest of us know about it. Sometimes I think your pain tolerance might be higher than _mine_.”

Finch gives a wan smile. “Unlikely, Miss Shaw.” Then he winces again, eyes squeezing shut. “Thank you,” he gets out. “For finding me. As a teammate, you are…” He pants for a moment. “Exemplary.”

There’s an unexpected rush of pleasure at the words, at the approval they convey. It’s kinda weird, because you don’t usually care so much what others think of you. Finch isn’t even an exception, in that regard, not under normal circumstances.

Huh.

“Teammate?” you muse. “Not just an employee anymore?” With your free hand, you scoop up a little water and pour it over his scalp, the part not covered by the bath itself. That elicits an expression that’s part discomfort, part pleasure.

“I have… never thought of myself as… as merely your employer. You and Mr. Reese are… every bit as vital to this mission as I am.” He pauses for a moment, to suck in a few quick breaths. “I hope that the… the money I provide… doesn’t hold undue power over any of you.”

You think about that bank account he set up for you, the one that keeps refilling at midnight, providing for everything from incidental expenses to fancy dinners to spa days to Manhattan luxury apartments. It’s certainly a nice perk, but, for the most part, the kind of money he’s providing has seemed… unreal. You got yourself a decent loft (though you had to buff up the security features after Root kidnapped you that one time) and scrounged the black market to kit out your arsenal, but other than that… it’s always seemed a danger, to start relying on a steady stream of income that way.

Even though you expect that Finch’s preparations have made these accounts nearly untraceable _and_ that they’ll likely continue to be filled for years after he’s dead. It’s still not something you should get used to.

“Nah,” you reassure him, finally, as a tremor runs through his body and up your arm. “Think I’d sass you this much if I cared about any of that?”

Frowning, he swallows, eyes still closed. “Miss Shaw… I know that you don’t understand… why I care about the welfare of the men who captured me.”

You hesitate. “You said they used to be your friends. I can understand that much.”

“Yes. I can’t say that we were ever all that close, but… when you know someone, at a key point in your life… when they help form the person you become… that can be a… a tie between you, a bond that can last for decades. In much the same way, I’d imagine, as you or Mr. Reese might mean to me, if fate separated us for twenty or thirty years.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t imagine Reese coming after you with the intent of chopping off your fingers,” Fusco gripes from behind you; you shoot him a mild look, and see that he’s claimed the toilet as a seat for now.

“He’s been angry at me before,” Finch counters. “Furious. Not enough to hurt me directly, even though his… leaving was a far greater wound than he… than he understood it to be.”

The water’s getting a little cooler than you’d like it to be right now; you think Finch can take it a little higher. At your call, Fusco takes over the job of keeping Finch’s head out of the water. You pull the plug up and move it to the side a little—letting some water flow out, but slowly—and then replace it, and add some warmer water.

Then you take Finch’s foot in your hand and ask him to wiggle his toes, to flex his ankle; it’s still not a lot of movement, still stiff, but it’s an improvement. The foot’s still purple, and blotchy, but turning more toward red, which you hope is a good sign.

“You haven’t asked me… what I did to make them hate me so,” Finch observes, his face drawn with pain.

Fusco huffs. “If it’s the kind of thing that actually merits frostbite as payback, I’m not sure I wanna know.”

“You said it was ‘all your fault,’” you recall. “So, whatever it was, you still blame yourself.”

Brows drawn together, he looks away. “I do.”

When he doesn’t elaborate, you take one of his hands in yours; he startles, and glances over at you.

“Bright red’s a good sign,” you say. “I take it you’re still experiencing tingling, maybe some burning?”

He nods.

“Any remaining numbness in your hands?”

“No.”

“Can you gently squeeze my hand?”

His grip is weak, and he shudders when he does it, but all four fingers are functional. The other hand is progressing at the same rate; you let out a breath of relief. Most likely there’s no permanent damage to his hands.

The feet, they’re more questionable. A few tiny blisters mean at least Stage 2, and there are some odd burns, like large raised welts, on both hands and feet.

“Did they use anything other than ice and vodka?”

He shudders. “Salt. They poured salt on the ice.” Suddenly he jerks and gives a yelp.

“Sorry!” Fusco says, jerking his hand out from under Finch’s neck. Then shoves it back under before Finch goes under too. “Sorry. I just— sorry. It’s just— jeez.”

“Know something about this, Lionel?”

“Well… yeah. I mean, it’s one of those stupid things the kids dare each other to do. Been a few 911 calls about it, kids getting burned and stuff. Hell, last year there was this gal in Virginia, got criminal charges for doing it to the little girl she was babysitting.”

“Basic chemistry,” Finch observes shakily. “It pulls heat out of the skin quite rapidly; hence, the ice burns.”

“Yeah,” Fusco breathes. “Look, if I had any say over this, those guys would not be seeing the light of day for a long, long time.”

“Unfortunately, Detective… if you’re talking prison… they’ve already been through that. It made them what they are today. And I’m afraid that… that I’m the one who sent them there.” He takes in a deep breath, wincing at some new jolt of pain. “And it is my intention to ensure that they never see prison bars again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pain of recovering from frostbite. At some length.


	14. Discussion (Harold POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to have the principle players sit down and actually have a talk.

Taking that first dip into the water was excruciating, but you tried to cling to the knowledge that pain, at this point, was better than the alternative. With Shaw’s arm supporting your neck, there was nothing much to do but float there, dealing with the tingling, burning agony as circulation slowly returned to parts that had been cold for far too long.

Trying to distract yourself from the pain, you converse with Shaw—letting her know, in case she doesn’t, how much you value her as a teammate.

It strikes you, then, that you owe her some level of explanation for why the Okamotos’ welfare matters so much to you. Not least because it might affect how readily she assists in your efforts to redeem them.

“Miss Shaw,” you murmur, “I know that you don’t understand”—a wave of pain strikes you hard, and you breathe through it—“why I care about the welfare of the men who captured me.”

“They used to be your friends,” she says, after a moment. “I can understand that much.”

You confirm it, but that’s really not enough. “When you know someone, at a key point in your life… when they help form the person you become… that can be a… a tie between you, a bond that can last for decades.”

When you compare that to the bond between you and Reese, Fusco scoffs. “Can’t imagine Reese coming after you with the intent of chopping off your fingers.”

 _No_ , you think, _only chopping off your hands at the wrist_. Which is what he did when he fled the country after Carter’s death, leaving your operation in turmoil, down by two men, and, despite your best efforts, easy prey for Vigilance. If Reese hadn’t come back in time… it could have all ended right there.

Because you need him. You can’t do this alone anymore.

 

Shaw trades places with Fusco, and warms up the water a little, then starts looking over your feet. As much as it hurts to let them thaw, it hurts worse to try to move them; the ‘shards of glass’ are not as pronounced, but they’re still there, buried deep within the muscles.

“You haven’t asked me,” you gasp, “what I did to make them hate me so.”

Fusco huffs. “If it’s the kind of thing that actually merits frostbite as payback, I’m not sure I wanna know.”

Does he think your mistakes couldn’t possibly be on that grand a scale?

“You said it was ‘all your fault,’” Shaw muses. “So, whatever it was, you still blame yourself.”

“I do,” you say, and fall silent, studying the ceiling tile as you debate how much more of this you want to share.

Shaw stays silent too, although she startles you by taking up one of your hands to examine the skin. “Bright red’s a good sign,” she says, and asks you how it feels. Squeezing her hand is more alarming than painful: Your muscles feel exhausted, as if you’ve over-exercised your grip today.

You remember that kind of exhaustion, during physical therapy after surgery. After the bombing. Wasted muscle trying to accomplish what could be expected from the muscles you’d had before. Training them to compensate. Learning how to limp along with part of your lower back just… missing, even if it didn’t look like that on the outside.

If you were the praying sort, you’d be praying recovery for your hands. Your feet don’t even matter so much, but your hands…

“Did they use anything other than ice and vodka?” Shaw asks, evidently wondering about chemical burns or something.

When you admit to the salt, you let out a yelp—because Fusco’s hand had tightened on your neck reflexively, en route to making a fist. After the apologies, he describes how kids have been using this kind of pain as a dare.

You remember the pain, when they’d first poured the salt on, when the temperature had suddenly dipped low. You wonder who first started the dare, and what kind of monster they must have been to want other people to hurt like that, all for a laugh.

“If I had any say over this,” Fusco avows, “those guys would not be seeing the light of day for a long, long time.”

You’re glad that it’s not his decision to make. Because the Okamotos have already spent more than half their lives in prison, and you’re not about to let them go back.

 

Eventually, through a combination of reason, orders, and pleading, you get Fusco and Shaw to agree to bring Ken and Daichi to you. They get you set up on the sofa again—the last time you’re going to let them carry you anywhere, but Shaw still doesn’t want weight on your feet for another couple of hours maybe—and then lock the doors (a precaution Shaw insists on) and set up two chairs on the far side of the living room. Then they work together to untie Daichi and bring him upstairs, handcuff him to one of the chairs. Fusco stays to watch him (they refuse to let you be alone with either of the men) while Shaw brings Ken up to join you.

And then, finally, you’re sitting there, bundled up in warm towels again, looking at the men who could have been your lifelong friends… if you hadn’t screwed that up within a few months of getting to know them.

There’s nothing but tense silence for a while, as you observe each other. Ken’s gaze doesn’t waver much; he doesn’t seem ashamed of his behavior, or, if he is, he’s hiding it well. Daichi, though, keeps darting his eyes at you, unable to look very long but equally unable to look away. His brow is furrowed, his face deeply unhappy, and you get the feeling that if his hands weren’t tied behind his back, he’d be hugging himself.

You’re surprised that you didn’t notice it before, but Ken’s got a thin ligature mark around his neck—and you’ve seen that kind of scar before, on a case Reese barely got to in time. Strangulation. _Dear god._ Did he get attacked? Did he… try to kill himself? The scar looks old, like a decade or more, but you don’t know enough about forensics to figure out anything more conclusive. And there was never anything in his file about it, at least the files that you were able to get your hands on.

If Daichi’s got scars, they’re not visible above his collarbone, or on his bare legs and arms. You don’t doubt that he’s got some, though—and, of course, both are stuck with emotional scars as well, the kind that may never heal.

Because of you.

Given that, it’s hard to find any words you could say to them right now. So the silence stretches on.

 

Before too long, Ken raises an eyebrow. “I’m getting the impression that you aren’t actually cops.”

“Well, _one_ of us is a cop,” Shaw counters.

Fusco doesn’t add anything to that, quite possibly because holding the guys in this fashion is breaking enough laws to destroy any case you might have against them, and he _probably_ doesn’t want them to be aware of that.

Running a quick cost/benefit analysis, you decide that honesty is, for once, more useful than deceit. “We operate outside the bounds of the law. Miss Shaw here, and I, along with our associates. The good detective is an ally, who assists us with a variety of tasks. As a matter of fact, we were just finishing up a case when you grabbed me.”

Ken breaks into laughter, his amusement nearly covering up the bitterness. “So much for the thought that we might someday outgrow it! Don’t know why I’m surprised.”

“You mean get out of crime?” you ask. “I did… for the most part. After I got my fortune started… well, it would be impossible for me to ‘go straight,’ not with my record. I suppose it could best be thought of this way: In order to stay free, I’ve had to maintain various identities for myself… but they all pay taxes. And contribute a significant amount to their pet charities.”

“So why go back to that life? A fortune wasn’t enough for you?”

Hesitating, you swallow the memory of Nathan’s boozy smile after a good day’s coding… of his lifeless face being covered up with a sheet. Finally, you respond, “I found something worth devoting my life to,” and try to smile, finding the effort unbearably weak. “So now, we help people. Mostly those who are beyond the reach of… of a strictly _legal_ approach.”

“Trying to tell us you’re in some kind of Robin Hood setup?” Ken asks. “ _Rob from the rich to give to the poor_ doesn’t ring quite as true when Robin’s decked out in fancy suits.” 

“The help we provide goes far beyond money, Ken. Earlier today, we stopped a murderer and saved the lives of four men that he had intended to kill. Last week, we caught wind of a chemical attack that could have left a young woman blind for life. In the past three years, we’ve intervened in well over a thousand cases, most of which are matters of life and death.”

The brothers regard you; Ken looks thoughtful, a little suspicious but open to being persuaded, while Daichi is looking more miserable than ever.

As you’re debating how to frame the next part of the conversation, Fusco suddenly blurts out, “All right, what’s with the clothes?”

Nobody seems to know what to make of the question, but Fusco’s not gonna let it go. “When I grabbed Sniffles, here, he’s got gooseflesh and he’s pale as skim milk. You’re not doing any better… Ken,” he finishes, having evidently failed to come up with a decent nickname to throw at him. “You set the whole thing up; was this some sort of bizarre penance ritual? Kill a guy, but catch a cold while doing so, so you’re even?”

“We never intended to kill him,” Ken says evenly.

“Right. Only make him _wish_ he were dead. Doesn’t answer the question.”

“I hardly think their choice of attire is the pertinent issue here,” you say, frowning—but Ken’s just taken in a deep breath.

“I told him there was no honor in shielding yourself from what your opponent suffers.” Ken looks at his brother, then steadily meets your gaze. “I agreed to help him, on conditions. We had to stay in the same room. Experience… not the same cold, obviously, but we couldn’t be warm while you were freezing. And we had to watch you go through it; we couldn’t turn away.”

Fusco swears and stomps off down the hall, but Shaw, at your side, just regards them thoughtfully. “So what’s the point of all that? Some kind of honor code?”

“He was hoping I’d back down,” Daichi murmurs. When Ken looks at him, startled, he scrunches down a bit, shoulders drawing in. “I knew what you were doing, Ken. I knew _why_ , I just— I wish we’d never found him.”

“I don’t blame you,” you say, finding your voice at last. “All of this… I can understand how much you hated me. And I deserve that.”

“You don’t, really,” Ken says with a sigh. “We were kids. You don’t deserve our hate any more than we deserved the sentences we got.” His mouth twists angrily. “Twenty-three years for trying to pull a scam over the phone. They just piled a bunch of charges on top of each other, just to make an example of us; _murderers_ don’t even get that much.”

“I know. I… I tried to get your sentences reduced somehow, but… I could never figure out a way to do it without getting caught myself.”

“You—what?” blurts Daichi. “You tried to help us?”

“There wasn’t anything I could do. Too many hard copies… nothing was online. And it took me a couple of decades to learn the trick of sneaking into places by pretending to be a janitor or tech support; I could never have done it back then.”

“Why didn’t you contact us?” Ken asks. “Let us know that you were at least _trying_?”

“Would you have believed me?” You swallow and look down. “I’d cut and run, right when you needed me. My cowardice left you both to get caught. I had all the money and you two took the fall for it. What would you have thought, getting a call or a letter to say that I couldn’t really do anything to help you? Would that have made anything better for you?”

You take in a deep breath and sigh it out again. “I suppose it was another kind of cowardice, not reaching out to you. Not letting you know what was going on. I was afraid of how you might react, or whether you might try to turn me in as well. So I just… I vanished.”

“And turned our money into a fortune, I see.” Ken’s smile is an oddly approving one. “Dai always thought you’d look good in a suit.”

Then his smile fades away, and the room falls silent again.

“What happened?” you ask, finally. “Why this? How long have you been planning this for me?”

The emotions that cross Ken’s face are hard to read, and it takes him a moment to compose himself, and lift his chin. “I’m the one who came up with it,” he says.

“You’re not,” Daichi protests. “It was my idea.”

“More specifically,” Ken says, holding your gaze with something like cold fury in his eyes, “when Dai was in the infirmary, recovering from the first time he tried to _kill_ himself, I got the idea that we needed something long-term to hold onto. A goal for a future that he couldn’t see right then. We started discussing it as soon as he was on his feet again.”

“And I couldn’t see any way forward but vengeance,” Dai murmurs. “God, Harold, I… I was so angry at you. So fixated on that anger. I couldn’t let it go.” He swallows. “And it wasn’t even what you did to us, it was the fallout, the consequences, and I knew it wasn’t your fault that they sent us away for life, but… I needed someone I could focus on.

“Today, when we finally spotted you in the street, practically nobody around… I couldn’t wait for a better time. Couldn’t let it boil up inside me any longer; it was _killing_ me.”

With nothing better to offer, you simply say, “I’m sorry,” and watch as tears spill down his cheeks.

Ken still looks angry. “It was a painful hope, but it was the only one I could give him. And even with that hope to cling to, he still tried to kill himself five more times. Poison, hanging, hanging, starvation, and damn near suicide by fellow inmate, for which event he got an additional five years. And the first attempt was a self-inflicted stab wound to the gut, luckily missing vital organs through his own incompetence. If I were going to hold a grudge against you, Harold, it’d be for _that_.” He sighs, that glittering edge of rage draining away. “But I don’t. Never have.”

“So, what,” Fusco grouses, “he hold a gun to your head and make you help out down there? Sure looks like you were equal partners at this.”

“Thank you, Detective,” you say, the gentle reprimand making him roll his eyes.

Thoughtfully, Ken regards Fusco. “I don’t suppose you know much of loyalty, if you can’t imagine sticking it out with a friend, even if you know they’re doing the wrong thing.”

After a moment, Fusco says, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I know something about that.” He drags another chair in from the kitchen and sits down on it backwards, his righteous outrage deflating a bit. Then he frowns. “That’s why you don’t have knives in the house. Or drugs.”

“Well, I _thought_ that we didn’t have drugs,” Ken says, glancing at Dai. “He got out two months before I did, and by the time I managed to track him down, he was… kind of a mess. I was lucky to find a job pretty fast, but we didn’t have enough extra to pay for rehab, so I just, well, researched it online and tried my best to run a drug-free home. And once he was clean, he… didn’t try to hurt himself anymore, as far as I knew. But I wasn’t going to chance it.”

“I didn’t take the pills,” Dai says. “They were just… like building up a backup plan. In case I really needed it. Made it easier to do things day by day if I thought I always had an out.”

“From pain pills?” Fusco asks.

Shaw gestures dismissively. “Overdose on acetaminophen, probably with alcohol. Acute liver failure, quick death. Not exactly pretty, though.”

Daichi deflates, his lips trembling. “Yeah, well, I didn’t want something that dragged on. I didn’t even know if it would work, really. But the thought kinda helped.” He glances over at Ken. “You can get rid of them now. I’ll show you where I hid everything.”

“That hardly matters if we’re headed back to prison,” Ken says, studying your face.

“I have no intention of sending you back there,” you assert. “As I’ve said, I don’t blame you for this.”

“What’s the plan, then? You’ve still got us tied up, here.”

“Unfortunately, my associates aren’t comfortable with my safety while you’re loose. Part of this discussion is in the hopes of convincing them that the threat is over.” Tilting your head, you meet his gaze. “So is that the case? Is the threat over with?”

“Are you okay?” Daichi asks suddenly. “Did we… how badly did we hurt you?” His face is pinched, his tone remorseful.

“It’ll be a while before we know,” Shaw replies. “What exactly were you hoping for?”

Ken laughs bitterly. “On paper, it was a way to steal your productive life, just like you stole ours. But when it came down to it… it was a way to get Dai to move on.”

That one’s understandable; Dai’s never been the type to let things go, not unless something new comes along that he can fixate on with all the fervor of the last project. Sometimes it had been easiest just to let him do a stupid thing, just so it’d get out of his system. This plan was, you suppose, the culmination of that tendency.

Still, if that’s what this was…

“How do you like the Jag?” you ask.

Ken pauses. Processes the question. Narrows his eyes at you. “You know, I always thought that contest was a little weird. Especially how it paid for the yearly taxes on top of the car itself.”

“Have you been keeping tabs on us?” Dai asks, mouth agape.

“I’ve been trying to make your lives easier, in any way I can see to do so. All these years… you’ve suffered enough.”

“Why the hell didn’t you come to us earlier?” Ken grinds out.

“Well, for one, I wasn’t sure that you’d be happy to hear from me; I judged it best if I could just stay out of your lives entirely. Of course, when you came to New York, that feat was a little harder to pull off… though I wasn’t entirely sure that you were looking for me, much less actively tracking me down.”

“You certainly hid your tracks well.”

“I’ve had abundant reason to do so.”

“But you sent me a Jag. That’s not exactly staying unobtrusive.”

“I doubt you would have figured it out, except in retrospect. But you always did talk of owning a wicked car someday. Custom painted.” Your lips twitch and your eyebrows shoot up for a second as you recall just how detailed the description could get. “Of course, I couldn’t get any more specific with the design without being too obvious, but I thought you’d like it nonetheless.”

“ _Like_ it? I’m terrified to drive the thing! You realize, I’d had barely two years’ driving experience before I went into the system, and by now I’ve got, what, six? Do you even know how nerve-wracking that is, taking your perfect car out for a drive and being constantly aware that a moment’s inattention could ruin it forever?”

“Well, if you ruin that one, I’ll buy you a new one.” The smile tugging at your lips is getting harder to resist.

“Wait,” Daichi says. “You’re rich enough to just give Jaguars away?”

Briefly, you hesitate, then decide that it’s worth the risk. “I’m rich enough that I could buy you each one of those cars every day for a year, and that would still be less than my yearly income. And I can pay you back your ‘investment’ a hundred times over.” You study their faces. “But I think I was right when I said that you don’t want money. I have something of far greater value to both of you right now. If you’re willing to trust me. I assure you that I’m far better at keeping my word these days than I was back then.”

Ken sucks in a breath. “I’ll be glad to hear you out. But being tied up like this is going to make it hard to shake your hand.”

“Miss Shaw,” you say, “do you think it’s a reasonable assumption, at this point, that the danger has passed?”

She looks thoughtful, and then pulls out a knife that you didn’t realize she was carrying. “Yeah, I think we’ve gotten somewhere.” But as she’s cutting Daichi loose, she murmurs, “And you do _not_ want to make me regret setting you free.”

Once the bonds are loose, and both men are sitting on chairs like normal people again, you smile. “How would you feel about getting entirely new identities—no felonies on your record to follow you around anymore? Because if you’re honestly trying to make a go at an honest life… I can certainly do that for you.”

The brothers look at each other, and then back at you—and, for the first time in thirty-odd years, you share a grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More pain/recovery.
> 
> Talk of prisons; disabilities and rehab; anger and vengeance.
> 
> Talk of suicide attempts (a couple decades ago), drug use, possible future suicide attempts.


	15. Commonalities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite their misgivings, Shaw and Fusco help Finch deal with the Okamotos—and find that their motivations aren't so alien after all.

Finch isn’t going to let this go, so, eventually, you’re bringing Daichi up and handcuffing him to a chair, and then watching the two of them stare at each other while Shaw goes to get Ken.

The silence isn’t pleasant, but it isn’t murderous, either—on either side. Daichi can barely bring himself to look at Finch, while Finch just looks… sad. Regretful. A little bit ashamed.

When Shaw ties Ken to the other chair, you note that he’s displaying far less guilt than either of the other two. Is it that he has less to be guilty for, or that he’s a psychopath who can do horrible things without feeling guilty about them? Earlier, you’d’ve been sure of the answer, but, by now, there’s an uncomfortable sort of uncertainty niggling at your brain.

Ken’s the first to break the silence: “I’m getting the impression that you aren’t actually cops.”

“Well, _one_ of us is a cop,” Shaw says, flatly. You almost wish that she hadn’t said that, but, of course, you’re already pretty deep in this situation. Nothing here is gonna be defensible in a court of law.

Just as you’re wondering how much Finch is gonna open up to these guys, he calmly lays it out there: “We operate outside the bounds of the law.” Wonderful. And, “The good detective is an ally,” which just ties you in a little tighter. If the team ends up letting these guys go, you might as well pack your bags and move to a different part of the country.

When Finch mentions the case you were on, Ken laughs—not unamused, but it’s not hard to pick up on some more negative emotions there. He seems determined to see Finch as some kind of criminal… which isn’t inaccurate, really, but certainly gives the wrong impression of Finch’s character.

Finch protests that he’s gotten out of crime… _basically_ , and that it’s impossible for him to be a proper honest citizen, because of something in his past, something on his record.

It’s weird to think of Finch having an actual criminal record. You wonder which identity it’s tied to. The revelation that all his aliases ‘pay taxes’ is less of a shock, but still a little surprising; you’d think that he’d be able to find ways around that. A normal rich guy might use all those charitable donations as tax write-offs, but you can’t see Finch going for that… or, if he does, it’d be so that he could put the money to better use than the government would. He’s probably funding dozens of charities—probably even _started_ a few, any time he noticed a need that wasn’t covered by existing services.

“So why go back to that life?” Ken digs. “A fortune wasn’t enough for you?”

Man, these guys got it _all wrong_.

“I found something worth devoting my life to,” Finch says, after a moment, his voice a little quavery. “So now, we help people. Mostly those who are beyond the reach of… of a strictly _legal_ approach.”

Ken scoffs at the idea of Finch as a type of Robin Hood. “ _Rob from the rich to give to the poor_ doesn’t ring quite as true when Robin’s decked out in fancy suits.”

If only he had the slightest _clue_ how much Finch sacrifices. How much he risks his own health and safety, even his _freedom_ , in order to work the cases—pushing himself to exhaustion, again and again, not just to save the numbers but to keep Reese from getting hurt in the process.

And Finch’s fortune? If a few thousand here and there can give him the comfort of a nice suit, that hardly diminishes the good that he’s been doing.

“The help we provide,” Finch says carefully, “goes far beyond money”—and then he proceeds to lay out a few recent cases. It surprises you: Finch isn’t the type to openly admit to his philanthropy. Not even that he’s humble about it… more like, he’s so troubled by his past (a past whose details you’ve only caught the edges of) that he can’t see his present as anything worth mentioning.

Still, the message seems to be sinking into these two; maybe they’re thinking twice about what they did, and why. Not like you’d trust them or anything, but it’s a bit of a relief that they’re not as hard-headed as most of the vengeful types that you come into contact with.

The younger one, though, he still looks like he’s gonna come apart at the seams. More than just the shivering.

Come to think of it… these guys just put Finch through hell in a frozen basement, and they’re in shorts and tank tops. Doesn’t make sense. You probably ought to wait for Finch to make his next point, but you can’t help but ask, “All right, what’s with the clothes?”

When nobody answers, you press the point. “No, seriously, I saw the coats down there. Pile by the stairs. When I grabbed Sniffles, here, he’s got gooseflesh and he’s pale as skim milk.” Then you turn to address the other guy. “You’re not doing any better”—you stretch for a decent nickname, but come up blank—“ _Ken_. You set the whole thing up; was this some sort of bizarre penance ritual? Kill a guy, but catch a cold while doing so, so you’re even?”

“We never intended to kill him,” Ken says evenly.

Like that’s any better. “Only make him wish he were dead. Doesn’t answer the question.”

“I hardly think their choice of attire is the pertinent issue here,” Finch asserts, but Ken raises his chin and meets your gaze.

“I told him there was no honor in shielding yourself from what your opponent suffers.” He glances at his brother. “I agreed to help him, on conditions.”

When he tries to make the act sound noble somehow, in the way they’d approached it, you can’t stay there any longer; you stomp off down the hall. You’ve run across far too many killers who use ritual, and it’s not like you need _more_ crazy to your head.

Finch’s words float down the hall: “I don’t blame you.” Ugh. You’ll blame them _for_ him.

But then you’re left in Daichi’s room, staring at the dresser you’d pulled away from the wall. The guy’s really messed up if he’s hiding pills.

Three decades, taken out of society and put in with the rest of the dysfunctionals. You don’t normally have much sympathy for the types who end up behind bars—it’d be hard to do your job if you felt sorry for every guy you put away—but it’s hard reconciling the sentence with the crimes. Even if you’re not precisely sure what ‘phone phreaking’ is. You’ve never been entirely comfortable with this idea of caging up people who aren’t even violent; prison is a place where you _become_ violent, just to survive.

Case in point: these two. Probably. You’re still not sure of the details.

Which is why you ought to be there guarding Finch. Not that Shaw’s incapable of handling two guys tied to chairs, but… it’s just safer if there’s two of you in the room. They’re less likely to try anything.

A little sheepish, you walk back in, just as Ken is complimenting Finch on his suit.

* * * * *

“I suppose it was another kind of cowardice,” Finch says, “not reaching out to you.”

It’s weird hearing Finch speak of himself in these terms; you’ve thought many things of him—cryptic, fussy, overbearing, frustrating, overly cautious, too easily caught up in his own idealism—but never anything like _cowardly_.

Fusco comes back in, just as Ken’s noting that “Dai always thought you’d look good in a suit.”

You try to picture Finch back then… teenage and in a suit. The image is fuzzy, indistinct; you’re not very creative at the best of times.

Well. When it’s a matter of life and death, you can get _real_ creative. Use every trick you can think of to keep someone from dying. Or figure out ways around obstacles so you can sneak in and _ensure_ someone’s death.

You’re kinda glad that that last one doesn’t crop up all that often. Not anymore. You haven’t had to kill someone in… pretty much as long as you’ve known Finch, come to think of it. Doesn’t look like today’s gonna change that.

“What happened?” Finch asks the two of them. “Why this? How long have you been planning this for me?”

Briefly, they argue over who’s to blame, each taking it upon himself; that’s laudable, you suppose. Not trying to cast blame. But then Ken ties it down to the causal factor you’ve all been waiting to hear: “When Dai was in the infirmary, recovering from the first time he tried to kill himself, I got the idea that we needed something long-term to hold onto. A goal for a future that he couldn’t see right then.”

“And I couldn’t see any way forward but vengeance,” Daichi murmurs. “God, Harold, I… I was so angry at you. So fixated on that anger. I couldn’t let it go.”

You remember that kind of anger. Not as strong as he felt, certainly, but you’ve never felt a stronger one. After Cole’s death. After finding out that Wilson had betrayed you both. It was a frigid, biting fury that ate away at your insides, until there was nothing left but one bitter goal: Survive long enough to find Wilson, and kill him. If that meant going outside the usual channels, or handing over data that Cole had died for, if it meant walking into your own likely death, that was all worth it, because the only way forward was vengeance.

 _A good soldier does both_.

“I needed something I could focus on,” Daichi concludes, and confirms, with tears in his eyes, that it was an impulse kidnapping. “I couldn’t wait for a better time. Couldn’t let it boil up inside me any longer; it was killing me.”

It’s Finch who says, “I’m sorry”—and Daichi’s tears overflow.

Since meeting Finch, you’ve gotten to the point where you work out nonlethal alternatives, find ways to take down enemies without actually killing anyone. But where Reese clearly regrets the person he was before, you’ve never lost any sleep over it. Your country told you to kill; you killed. Sometimes the decisions were bad ones, but you’re doing better now, and it’s not like crying about it is gonna bring back the dead.

You put a bullet through Wilson’s brain, and that solved the immediate need for revenge, but you didn’t feel guilty— _or_ exultant. It wasn’t something to regret or to rejoice over; it was just a stepping-stone to the next point of your life. The cold rage that was keeping you going at that point wasn’t needed anymore, and so it stopped.

But for Daichi Okamoto, that same rage was a poison, built up for decades and destroying him.

This man isn’t a killer. Not like you, or Reese. Something inside you shifts as you come to that understanding.

And Daichi, it turns out, has tried to kill himself half a dozen times—you’re not sure if that’s spread out throughout their prison term, or all bunched together near the beginning. Apparently one of the attempts added five years to his sentence, which couldn’t have helped matters.

Understandably, Ken’s not happy about watching his brother in that much despair. “If I were going to hold a grudge against you, Harold, it’d be for _that_ ,” he says, but then sighs. “I don’t. Never have.”

“So, what,” Fusco grouses, “he hold a gun to your head and make you help out down there? Sure looks like you were equal partners at this.”

Finch quiets him with a simple, “ _Thank you_ , Detective.”

When Ken speaks of loyalty, though, as if morality hinges entirely on that one virtue, Fusco… backs down. “Yeah,” he says, deflating. “Yeah, I guess I know something about that.”

As though he’s suddenly too tired to stay on his feet any longer, he pulls over a kitchen chair and sits, backwards, not looking at them anymore.

Then, suddenly, he seems to pull some details together: “That’s why you don’t have knives in the house. Or drugs.”

News to you, especially given the little baggie that Fusco came back with.

“Well, I _thought_ that we didn’t have drugs,” Ken says, glancing at Daichi, which goes a long way toward explaining that discrepancy. And then he’s going over his brother’s drug addiction. Makes you wonder if drugs had anything to do with the day’s events, but you haven’t picked up on any behavior that makes you think they’re not in their right minds.

When Fusco questions Daichi’s suicide plan, you wave it off. “Overdose on acetaminophen, probably with alcohol. Acute liver failure, quick death.” You study Daichi’s pale face. “Not exactly pretty, though.” There aren’t many _good_ ways to die, and sometimes people try to propose that this or that method is at least a ‘better’ way, but, having seen the outcomes firsthand during med school, you know it’s not a way _you’d_ like to go.

Daichi tells Ken that he’s done needing pills. “You can get rid of them now. I’ll show you where I hid everything.”

Ken, however, is looking at Finch. “That hardly matters if we’re headed back to prison.”

“I have no intention of sending you back there,” Finch says firmly. “As I’ve said, I don’t blame you for this.”

“What’s the plan, then? You’ve still got us tied up, here.”

“Unfortunately, my associates aren’t comfortable with my safety while you’re loose.” He says it without spite; he doesn’t seem to blame you for your caution. “Part of this discussion is in the hopes of convincing them that the threat is over. So is that the case? Is the threat over with?”

“Are you okay?” Daichi blurts out. “Did we… how badly did we hurt you?”

Ten minutes ago, you would have wondered how genuine his concern could possibly be. But you think you’ve got a handle on this guy, one that basically fits with the data. Still, actions have consequences, and you feel like driving in the knife a little, driving the lesson home. “It’ll be a while before we know.”

He looks stricken, and you hope that’s gonna help keep him from going off the deep end again. At least, with regard to hurting other people; trying to keep him from hurting _himself_ is an entirely different matter, not solved that easily.

A minute later, Finch is pointing out that the Jag in their driveway is his doing. Apparently he rigged a contest to give Ken some fancy car. Both men are floored that Finch has been interfering in their lives, but they don’t seem upset by it.

 _You’d_ probably be upset by it. Even if the interferences were good things.

“I’ve been trying to make your lives easier,” Finch says, “in any way I can see to do so.” Which, yeah, that’s the kind of rationale he uses. And the reason that you make it a point to periodically go off his radar, asserting your independence from his meddling.

Ken’s riled up now, but for a different reason—maybe the sense of ‘this could all have been avoided.’ “Why the hell didn’t you come to us earlier?”

“I judged it best to stay out of your lives entirely,” Finch says, calmly reasonable. “Of course, when you came to New York, that feat was a little harder to pull off…”

And apparently they tracked him down. _Finch_. You recall how difficult it had been to track Finch down the first time—with covert-ops training, while knowing exactly which city he was in and what he looked like, along with having a publicly visible associate to focus on as well. These guys appear to have dug Finch up from knowing him three decades ago, as an entirely different person, and in a different state (not even an adjacent one, at that). Your esteem for their skills goes up a notch.

“But you sent me a Jag,” Ken protests, when Finch claims to have been keeping off their radar. “That’s not exactly staying unobtrusive.”

Got a point there, but Finch shakes it off… while pointing out that he customized it with some view to Ken’s specific tastes. “I couldn’t get any more specific with the design without being too obvious, but I thought you’d like it nonetheless.”

“ _Like_ it?” Ken blurts. “I’m terrified to drive the thing!”

There’s something in his tone that you try to analyze. It feels like you’ve gotten over a hump somewhere, like you’re past the point of danger. Not that you trust it, not yet, but it’s hard to think of these guys as potential threats while Ken’s discussing the fear of banging up his custom Jaguar.

“Well,” Finch allows, “if you ruin that one, I’ll buy you a new one.”

“Wait. You’re rich enough to just give Jaguars away?” Daichi asks, and you feel your lips twitch as you contemplate the gulf between the average person trying to save up for a used car and the fact that your boss could probably waltz into a car lot and purchase every vehicle, along with the dealership _itself_ , without having to concern himself with the exact amount. Hell, he’s probably got a credit card specifically for purchases that he doesn’t want to bother thinking about.

Surprisingly, Finch puts his own finances into perspective: “I’m rich enough that I could buy you each one of those cars every day for a year, and that would still be less than my yearly income.”

Yeah, you weren’t off on your guess.

“And I can pay you back your ‘investment’ a hundred times over,” he continues, and then asserts that they don’t want money. “I have something of far greater value to both of you right now,” he says, his voice sober but caring. “If you’re willing to trust me. I assure you that I’m far better at keeping my word these days than I was back then.”

Ken sucks in a breath. “I’ll be glad to hear you out. But being tied up like this is going to make it hard to shake your hand.”

“Miss Shaw,” Finch says, “do you think it’s a reasonable assumption, at this point, that the danger has passed?”

Reese would probably kill you for risking it, but you find yourself cutting them free—though not without murmuring a threat in Daichi’s ear, just to be sure of his good behavior: “You do _not_ want to make me regret setting you free.”

* * *

On the way back to the city, the Okamotos follow you; Fusco’s driving while you keep an eye on them, and Finch is already delving into his laptop to set things up for their new identities. He’s treating this every bit as seriously as any number, and you can tell that a great weight has been lifted off his shoulders now that—as far as you can tell—his old friends are ready to play nice.

Of course, once you were on the road, he quietly asked you for the frequency of the trackers that you planted on their cars, so it’s not like he’s _entirely_ off his guard.

The first stop is one of the safe houses, where he gets a fresh suit to replace the clothes he borrowed from Ken, and then takes some careful photos of both of them, and prints up fresh IDs. You don’t doubt that Finch’ll be back within 24 hours to claim anything valuable in the house and wipe it off his list of viable retreats; the only thing he takes now is the little ID printer, probably to reduce the chance that the Okamotos (now, apparently, the _Yanagigawas_ ) will get into trouble before they even have a chance to get started on their new lives.

He also checks in with Reese, just to make sure that everything’s fine on his end. Not a word is said about anything amiss; Finch seems to be saving the fallout for when they meet in person, in a day or two. Because Finch can bundle himself up from toes to collar and even add a pair of gloves, but there’s no way that Reese could miss his cautious, wincing steps, and even a hat couldn’t hide the way that bruises are blooming around his temple.

But, for now, you’ve got the night to yourselves. And Finch has chosen to treat his old friends to a meal. This’s gonna be interesting: See how they behave in public, and put their new IDs to the test.

It’s an ancient tradition, sharing food to show that you mean each other no harm, and Finch does love the classics. If you’d had a chance to place a bet with Fusco, he might’ve guessed some high-end ritzy place, give these two a truly exceptional meal to make up for all of the prison food; you might’ve guessed comfort food in the style of whatever’s normal for Ohio, back in the 80s. Instead, you wind up near Chelsea, in an odd little place called _Barcade_. Given the name, it’s hardly a shock to find it full of arcade games.

After he’s ordered ‘The Big Deal,’ a $30 set of appetizers that’s supposedly enough for four people, he invites you to get whatever you like, _carte blanche_. Fusco goes for a meatball hero while you decide to get adventurous and try out the Chicken-and-Waffle Grilled Cheese. Daichi seems content with what Finch has ordered, while Ken adds on some chili cheese fries.

Nobody orders alcohol. Not after what you just went through. It’s not gonna put you off your drink or anything, but you can do without a beer tonight.

While waiting for the food to arrive, Finch gives the tour, making you wonder how often he’s come here; doesn’t seem like his kind of place. But then you watch as Daichi suddenly gets very animated. Not the kind of energy that makes you think _threat_ —he’s clearly excited about the game they’ve found. _Frogger_.

Two minutes later, they’ve got cups of tokens and the three of them are groaning over failures, switching players whenever someone runs out of lives, and so focused on the game that when the food gets there they just wave off the announcement and go back to playing.

You and Fusco share a look, and dig in. Like hell you’re waiting for their permission.

Halfway through the hot wings, Fusco asks, through a mouthful, “Think they’re gonna be okay?”

From what you can tell from back here, Daichi has finally made it to the third level. They’re clapping him on the back like some kind of sports hero; you don’t think you’ve ever seen Finch let his hair down this much.

“Guess it depends,” you say, and savor another bite of mixed flavors from your chicken-waffle-cheese thing.

“Yeah?”

“On whether Reese finds out the truth about what happened.”

Fusco laughs and shakes his head. “Yeah. They’re doomed.”

“I dunno, he took _you_ under his wing.” From what you hear, you’re not the only one who tried to kill Reese on the first day.

“I never hurt Finch,” Fusco says seriously.

That’s… a good point. But you’re betting that Finch already has some contingency plans for these two.

“I’m glad they’re okay, though,” Fusco says, after a moment. “Finch’ll treat ’em right.”

Yeah. _That_ much, you’re sure of.


	16. Epilogue (Harold POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The resolution, eight months in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aside from a flashback to Ulrich Kohl (episode: Foe), nothing seems to need warnings. Have a reasonable happy ending!

**Epilogue**

 

The past eight months have been as strenuous as ever, but there’s something relaxing about checking in with the Okamotos—now the Yanagigawas, an identity you’ve thoroughly woven into recorded history in every way that could affect them—and finding new ways that they’ve started to thrive.

You’ve given them enough money, free and clear, for them to survive for five years doing absolutely nothing in the way of work. But Ken (still Ken—it’s common enough) has kept his job—unsurprisingly—and they’re doing their best not to waste the opportunity.

Daichi (now Dylan, which he insists on pronouncing _die-lun_ ) is taking pottery classes, and trying to earn his GED, something he didn’t pursue while in prison. Ken’s adjusting to the world of a free and unfettered internet, and, in addition to his regular job, he’s studying pharmacology—hoping that he’ll never have to use it, but wanting to be prepared. You’ve also invited him to join you at the next first aid class, an offer he happily accepted.

You can’t reasonably get together all that often, not with everything else that you have to do, but an hour or three, once a month, has become a pleasure to look forward to. Out of the three of you, the one with the most exposure to modern gaming is _you_ —and that’s pretty much exclusively flight simulators. So Ken buys games on Steam and, once a month, you try them out together.

It’s not an activity that’s interesting in and of itself, but, in context, with your oldest actual friends, it’s quite pleasurable. Gives you a hint of modern culture that you’re not normally exposed to—apparently there's a _much_ wider range of game genres than you could ever have imagined, back when you had time to devote to gaming.

Last month, they were watching you fumble your way through a 3D puzzle game narrated by a sarcastic female AI; the seemingly simple puzzles turned out to be less trivial than you expected, but the real challenge was in trying to get used to unfamiliar controls as your character repositioned boxes and defied the laws of physics. That, and trying not to imagine your _own_ AI going insane and homicidal.

Tonight, they’d offered up a ‘crime boss simulator,’ which hadn’t exactly piqued your interest, although Dy had mocked up a version of you as the crime boss himself, complete with fancy suit. But now you’re watching Ken throw himself into traffic, letting that ridiculous-looking Finch body bounce off cars and go flying through the air like a rag doll, somehow amassing points for ‘insurance fraud.’ It’s just bizarre enough that it’s got the three of you in gales of laughter.

 

As the evening wears down, you find yourself on the back balcony with Dylan, drinking light rum and bemoaning the light pollution that makes the sky so much less interesting than it was back in Ohio.

Taking another sip of rum, you finger a slip of paper in your pocket. And then you launch into the tale of Ulrich Kohl, the man who was so stuck in his past that, upon finding out that he had a daughter, ended up terrorizing her—turning the knowledge of her father as a sacrificial hero into the memory of a killer getting shot while pointing a gun in her mother’s face.

Unsurprisingly, Dy doesn’t have much sympathy for the man. You do, but you’re not going to challenge the point. What Kohl did was understandable, yet unconscionable.

You’re no longer worried that Dy might do the same. And so, tonight, you bring up the memory of Iffaa.

What you don’t mention is that you’ve set up some alerts for if either of them go near Iffaa’s neighborhood. You’re not going to leave her unprotected, just in case, and letting them know about the controls would be tempting them to find ways around them. Still, as you explain to him what happened to her, as you watch the affection and understanding in Dylan’s eyes, you doubt that it’s going to be an issue.

Ten minutes later, you’re passing a photo into his trembling hands.

He stares at it for a long moment, brushing his fingers along her face, her hair. “She’s doing all right, then?” he asks, voice cracking.

“Just adopted her fourth child.”

“And she’s happy?”

“She’s happy, Dy.”

The tears start to roll down his cheeks again, and you can’t pretend that yours are any drier. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For the thought. But I think you’re right: She’s happier not even thinking about me.”

“That’s probably true.”

“I wish… no. I can’t even wish that I had known. I might have fixated on getting free just to track her down, end up ruining _her_ life instead of almost ruining yours.” He turns to you. “But I’m glad to know that she got out of there. That she can have a good life now.”

You return his smile, a similar thought running through your mind.


End file.
